


Breaking the Hinges

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Killian Jones decides to spend his night off relaxing in his apartment, the last thing he expects is a beautiful blonde woman bursting through his front door. Modern Neighbors AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fanfiction so I’m not sure how well this will go. This story is still in the works and I keep tweaking it around, so please bear with me. Feedback is always appreciated!

The first time Killian Jones lays his eyes upon Emma Swan,she’s bursting in through his front door like a hurricane.

She doesn’t even see him standing there, practically frozen in the middle of his living room, halfway to the couch and clutching his mug of tea so tightly that he’s sure his knuckles have adopted a paler colour now. He probably looks like an idiot in his sweatpants and Batman t-shirt, and it takes him a few seconds to tear his mind away from how she shakes her curly golden hair out, after tugging a light grey beanie off her head, to realize that she’s speaking. Or maybe the right term is _muttering exasperatedly_.

“God, David, do you have any idea how hard it was to find this place, why the hell – oh,” she pauses when she finally lifts her head up and meets his gaze. His breath hitches because he was not expecting her eyes to be _so green_. “You…you’re not David.”

It takes him a brief moment to piece together his thoughts, following which he offers her a small nonchalant smile. “Afraid not, love,” he manages to say as normally as he possibly can. Because, really, she is bloody beautiful and he feels like he’s just been hit by a freight train and all the wind has been knocked out of him and hold on a second – “Did you say David? As in, David Nolan?”

She eyes him warily, and gives him a hesitant nod which he finds amusing because he’s not the one that just burst into a stranger’s apartment with gumption akin to something of a serial killer. His lips quirk up a tad higher at the thought and he shuffles towards the coffee table to his right to place his mug down before he does something stupid like get distracted by her high cheekbones and drop his hot beverage all over himself. That would be a great way to make an impression.

When he looks back up at her, she’s still observing him as if he’s about to pounce on her. Perhaps if the circumstances were different and she was willing, he would. But, this was not the time to think about that.

“He’s my neighbour, lives across from me,” he saunters up to her and extends a hand as he flashes her his most dashing grin, “Killian Jones.”

It takes her a moment to respond with a sheepish “Oh God, I’m so sorry” with her eyelashes fluttering against her slowly reddening cheeks, and he swears his heart stops. She places her hand in his and locks her eyes with his, “I’m – “

“Emma?”

The third voice wafts between them from across the hall and she tears her gaze from his, immediately turning. Killian stifles a groan at the interruption and cranes his neck slightly to find David standing in his own doorway with a rather confused expression on his face.

He feels the warmth suddenly leave his hand and realizes that the gorgeous lass – Emma – is bolting towards his tall blonde neighbour and wrapping him in a tight hug. A tinge of jealousy passes through his nerves but he snaps himself out of it, mentally chastising himself for feeling possessive over a woman that he’s _literally_ just met. Anyway, it’s not as if she’s David’s girlfriend. He knows David’s girlfriend; Mary Margaret Blanchard, the pixie-haired brunette who teaches elementary school kids – the one who he’s met countless times during his many hangouts with Dave. Hangouts which, obviously, did not include mentioning his friend’s acquaintance with a stunning blonde.

“Killian,” David’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts, “I see you’ve met Emma Swan.” _Swan_ , he likes that. It suits her somehow.

“To an extent, yes. Although I’m still uncertain as to what she was doing in my apartment,” he chuckles as he focuses his eyes on her.

She sucks her lower lip in between her teeth and sighs. “I thought David said 4C, not 4D.”

She look so embarrassed and small in the harsh hallway lighting and something in his heart swells when he notices that glint of sadness in her eyes that he hadn’t caught up till now.

“All’s well, lass, it was an honest mistake,” he offers lightly. “Dave’s never mentioned you, how do you two know each other?” He tilts his head towards his friend.

“Actually, Emma here is my adoptive sister,” David grins down at her.

“Wait – what? So much for being your best mate,” he huffs, “Leaving out the fact that you had a sibling all along.”

David lets out a loud laugh, no doubt amused by what he himself has coined as Killian’s wounded-puppy-impression. “Apologies, mate, I guess it never came up.”

He can’t really blame David for that one. Other than the occasional drunken heart-to-heart, the two of them had barely had any conversations on a personal level. Killian had told him about why he’d moved to the States but he’d only touched on the surface of his past, while David had shared his harsh upbringing as a neglected son and his occasional hurdle with Mary Margaret. The topic of siblings had never waded its way into their discussions. But they did speak of their schedules often and he knew when David’s mother or Mary Margaret’s parents (his future-in-laws, Killian teased him) were to visit, so not even mentioning the fact that his adoptive sister would be dropping by seemed a little off. Unless, it was spur of the moment. Unless, something distressful had caused it. It would certainly provide a mild explanation for the beast of sadness that seemed to be welled up inside of her.

“Emma, you’re probably tired,” David says softly, “I’ll make you something to eat and then you can rest, alright?”

“Geez, okay, _Dad_ ,” she heaves out a sigh in mock annoyance but she’s still smiling at her brother. David turns around to walk into his flat, shouting a “See you later, Jones,” over his shoulder, leaving the two out in the hallway alone.

He realizes he’s staring at her (again) when she looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. He finds it utterly endearing how she can shift her personality in mere seconds; he’s always loved a challenge and something tells him that Emma Swan is nothing short of one.

“Well, I better get inside before David decides to finish all that food without me.”

“If that ever happens, my door is open for you, love. As you have already demonstrated, in fact,” he says gesturing towards his apartment with a wave of his hand.

He sees her cheeks once again colouring into a rosier hue and plasters on a smug grin at the faint smile she offers him.

“Bye, Jones.”

“Goodnight, Swan.”

And with that, the door in front of him shuts, the small hallway feeling infinitely larger and emptier without her presence. He runs his hand through his hair and lets out a heavy breath. _Emma Swan_ , he repeats her name in his head. He’s known her for a total of fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes and she’s already nestled firmly in his mind. He glances at his neighbour’s door once more before shutting himself inside his own apartment, praying to some higher power that she’ll still be there in the morning.


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Killian Jones decides to spend his night off relaxing in his apartment, the last thing he expects is a beautiful blonde woman bursting through his front door. Modern AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou guys for taking an interest in this little story of mine! Feedback is always appreciated.

Emma shucks off her boots by the door and slowly pads her way into the kitchen, unceremoniously tossing her leather jacket and beanie over the back of the couch to her right. She slides on to one of the barstools and crosses her arms on the island, placing her head on top of them and watching David fry something on the stove with his back to her. She takes a moment to let out a deep breath and let her limbs relax. Emma Swan has had a tough day. Actually, she's had a pretty tough three weeks. She doesn't want to sound ungrateful, but life has been downright shit storming down on her.

She hadn't planned on landing herself on her brother's doorstep in the middle of the evening but after the morning she'd had, she knew there was only one place she could go where she'd felt comfortable and calm. So, she grabbed whatever she thought necessary, dumped it in the backseat of her yellow Volkswagen bug and called David to set up the couch for her.

He'd been pretty shocked -- maybe that was putting it lightly. Emma Swan never really knew how to keep in touch with people, not even those that were her only family. She called and texted David sometimes, and they exchanged Christmas cards and a few emails every now and then -- but that was it. Despite his insistence to visit each other, she hadn't seen her brother in almost three years, and she only blamed herself. After his initial shock had worn off, he turned to worrying and then shifted to anger until finally calming down when she said she'd explain everything when she saw him. She's dreading that promise now. She knows that he'd disguised his need to interrogate her by telling his neighbour that she needed to "rest"; she is certain she is definitely not going to get any sleep until David had enough answers to satisfy himself with.

Emma shuts her eyes, mentally willing the thoughts of confrontation away as if to make it any easier. As soon as her mind is blank, however, the only thing she can imagine is dark messy hair and the bluest eyes she's ever seen along with a lilting voice that echoes a soft _Goodnight_ across her subconscious. She flicks her eyes open with a start, and furrows her brows. Granted, her brother's neighbour -- Killian Jones -- was a good looking man, fitted well with toned arms and just enough scruff to pass by without seeming like a mountain man. There was also how he seemed to make even a dorky Batman shirt look hot and -- no. She does not need to hop on to that train of thought. Not right now, not so soon, and especially not about a man that she'd met barely half an hour ago. Still, she did have to give him bonus points for maintaining his cool and not immediately calling 911 as she practically bombarded his living space. She shifts the thoughts of the stranger to the back of her mind.

"Here you go, Emma," David says, placing a plate of bacon and fried eggs in front of her.

"Okay, either you've run out of ingredients or this is still the only thing you know how to cook," she smirks and raises an eyebrow at him, already knowing his answer.

He lets out a small nervous laugh, "Well, Mary Margaret usually does the cooking around here."

Ah, yes, Mary Margaret. She'd known the woman through college -- after all, that's where David had met her too. The two of them had been roommates and while Emma stuck to herself most of the time, the petite brunette had somehow managed to become one of her closest friends, which worked out perfectly when she and her brother started dating. When Mary Margaret had gotten a great teaching job right after graduating, she'd taken it and moved out here. David had followed a year later, and that's pretty much the last she saw of them.

"Speaking of, where is she? Don't tell me you guys haven't moved in together yet," she says, munching on a piece of bacon. "You've been together for, like, ever. I'm surprised you're not married by now."

David had moved around the island to sit next to her. "I actually only recently asked her to move in," he beams; obviously she'd said yes. "She's waiting for the lease to be up. You know, I'm so glad we took it slow."

Emma winces. Well, that stung. David couldn't possibly know how much that hit home though, so she didn't blame him for using those words. Emma Swan was very well aware of how fast and hard she took relationships in her life. That was part of the reason she was here right now.

"Anyway, enough about me, you promised me you'd tell me what's going on. And don’t try and deny it because there’s no way you drove all the way from New York City after three years just to eat my burnt bacon," his tone suddenly shifting to something between concerned and strict.

Emma sighs, suddenly losing her appetite and pushing away her half eaten plate of food. She knows she can’t avoid this conversation. "Okay, I'm not quite sure where to start," she half laughs out. He was staring at her intently, willing her to go on.

Shutting her eyes, she figures she should get it all out in one go. "Do you remember the guy I told you about, Walsh? The one who I met while looking for an end table for my living room?" He nods. "Well, we started seeing each other like a week later, and then I moved in with him shortly after." She avoids his gaze just in case he decides to reprimand her for moving too fast. "Turns out, he doesn't just run his own furniture store -- he runs a serious illegal import business, so when I found out about that, I bolted. Didn't really have a place to go because I don't have my own house so I called you and drove down here." She doesn't elaborate on the fight they had after she'd confronted him about it, how he'd blackmailed her into staying with him with his harsh words about her being broken and an orphan -- she assumes out of fear of her telling the police about his felonies --, how she kept her pain balled up in her chest for weeks until she finally cracked, how she hadn't been sleeping, how she hadn't felt this lost and heartbroken in a very long time.

Before she knows it, a strong pair of arms are wrapped around her, squeezing her tight. "Emma, I'm so sorry," David says, his voice muffled by her hair. He lets her go and fixes her with a leveled gaze, "You should get some sleep, I'll lend you some clothes and we'll figure this out tomorrow morning, okay?"

She nods silently, unsure of how to process the fact that her brother is seemingly okay with his estranged sister's terrible life choices. She figures she should keep the rest of what happened to herself; he doesn't need to know about her losing her job yet. She doesn't think she can handle that much pity from him in such a short amount of time. She can barely keep from getting annoyed at the look in his eyes right now. Although, that might be tough considering the understanding expression on his face that has her on the verge of tears. She keeps herself from crying, because David has always told her how strong she is and she wants to live up to that no matter how differently she feels at this very moment.

She gets up from where she is and makes her way to the couch, accepting the clothes and blankets he offers her and wishing him goodnight only to be followed by being crushed in another David Nolan bear hug. After changing and washing her face, she shuts off the lights and snuggles into the warm fleece. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wills the hurt and sadness she's been hoarding around for the past month to simmer down, quietly begging sleep to engulf her entirely.


	3. A Shift In Normalcy

Killian doesn’t know if he’s allowed to just _barge in_  to David’s apartment like he usually does. It’s mid morning and he’s been awake since the crack of dawn, which is ridiculous because he isn’t even working today and that  _usually_ warrants staying asleep until noon. And then  _usually_ he’d saunter over across the hall and plop himself onto Dave’s couch to watch some ridiculous tv show on Netflix - his friend has somewhat of an obsession with tv shows, every few weeks he finds something new to “fanboy” over. Mary Margaret thinks it’s cute, and always gets as invested in the show as her boyfriend is. Killian’s not too sure he likes filling in his free time with mindless television. (He will never admit to anyone how much he enjoyed marathoning Glee with the couple - he was singing their top hits for weeks after much to the irritation of his colleagues.)

Rising from his bed, he scrubs his face with his hand trying his best not to think of Emma.  _Emma_. Bloody hell, she’s already taken over his morning thoughts, something no woman in a long time has managed to do. He doesn’t know what it was about the blonde that had refused to let him sleep. While tossing in his sheets last night he began recounting their meeting several times in his head; he started noticing the little things he’d missed due to, probably, how she seemed to light up his doorway. He remembered the way the skin under her eyes was a few shades darker than the rest of her face and how when she shook his hand, it seemed limp and almost lifeless, her shoulders sagging and her words quiet.

He’s always feigned himself as rather perceptive and something was obviously wrong last night. But, why did he care? He lets out a throat retching sigh that sounds more like a groan and swings his legs to the side of his bed.  _That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?_  Trying his best to push every thought of her out of his mind,  _easier said than done_ , he carries out his usual morning routine of brushing, showering and fixing himself some breakfast.

He runs a hand through his still wet hair afterwards and decides to change into something a little more decent to fetch his mail (he figures the elderly man, Marco, who lives downstairs, would hardly approve of him walking around the complex shirtless).

He’s halfway down the stairs ( _bloody elevator is still broken_ ) when he hears a heavy grunt from a flight below him. Peering over the railing, he catches a glimpse of golden hair and without warning, his heart starts ramming against his chest. Confused and utterly embarrassed, he takes a few breaths to steel himself before going to see what has the Lady Swan so riled up at this time of day.

Her back is to him and she’s pulling up what looks like a rather heavy beige suitcase by its top handle in an obviously poor attempt to lug it up what he calculates to be at least three more flight of stairs. He clears his throat to get her attention, not wanting to frighten her by speaking up.

She turns around with a look on her face that would scare him witless, but it immediately softens once she takes him in. His heart speeds up again at that little victory.

"Jones," she says with a curt nod, one hand still clutching the bag.

"Lovely morning isn’t it, Swan?"

"Sure, if you feel like heaving up a broken suitcase with a sore back and probably a strained wrist," she spits out under her breath as she turns around to fight with her luggage once again.

He chuckles slightly and tries his best not to mention something about  _activities_ that may have caused her sore back. “Might I be of assistance?”

"No thanks, I can handle this."

"Oh, I have no doubt, love. But seeing as you did mention something about a sore back, it would be bad form to not assist a lady in need."

She swirls her head to eye him, and he feels exposed under her gaze. He tries not to squirm, settling with channeling all the nervous energy into scratching an itch behind his ear. The next thing he knows, though, she’s managed to lift the bag up over one stair and place it in front of him.

He smirks at her and picks it up, one hand on each handle, and easily lifts it to his chest. He honestly has no qualms that she would be able to manage this on her own, but something about her once again puts him off. His mind whirs with the thoughts of his first years after _she’d_ left, with how his wrecked emotional state bled into a wrecked physical state. And, of course, then there was the alcohol.

He tries not to think about it too much as she steps to his side and begins ascending up the steps with him.

"Quite the gentleman, aren’t you?" She quips.

"Aye, love, always," he beams at her, and she gives him a very small smile that’s gone as quickly as it came.

He suddenly realizes that walking next to her is a terrible, terrible idea. The subtle aroma of vanilla and honey, he thinks, surrounding her wafts into his direction with every step they take. He finds himself wondering if she tastes like that, too. Wondering how soft her lips are, how her hands would feel tugging at his hair - he clears his throat abruptly and shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of such thoughts.

"So," he clears his throat again, "for how long does our dull housing have the pleasure of your brilliant company?"

From the corner of his eye, he notices a tint of red on her cheeks but she lets out a scoff in an obvious attempt to cover it. “Living arrangements are…indeterminable right now,” she answers vaguely after a moment of silence and so he chooses not to pry, even though his curiosity is gnawing at him.

He would like to know everything about the enigma that is Emma Swan. He knows nothing of her and yet, he feels a tug of happiness at the prospect of having her residing a mere few feet away from him.

-/-

His weekly lunch at Dave’s felt different. Sure, they’d all crowded around the small table in front of the kitchen - David, Mary Margaret and him - per usual, but the occupied fourth seat had left him a bit, perhaps, nervous. He’s still not sure why. They’d eaten, swapped work stories, and discussed his friend’s new obsession (The Office - the US version - which Killian took no liking to compared to the original).

And yet, throughout the perfectly normal afternoon, Emma had been there; not speaking much, but offering up a few words when she felt necessary. David had mentioned her line of work, she was a bail bondsperson in New York, and he felt a rather strange surge of pride going through him. He’d smiled at her and murmured  _“tough lass”_  as she shoved another piece of lasagna into her mouth, clearly avoiding any further discussion surrounding her. He felt the need to impress her, the dire pull to make her laugh and make her feel a part of whatever their little group had become.

That’s where he finds himself now, seated across from her on his neighbour’s sofa, the afternoon long gone and the sun ready to set, in a pathetic attempt to explain the fact that the UK version of The Office is, in fact, far more superior. (While said neighbour and his girlfriend are demonstrating horrid amounts of PDA in a corner of the kitchen, much like they usually take to doing.)

"Seriously, it’s a bloody copy. I don’t see why America needed to make their own when the population could have just as easily watched the original," he grumbles into his beer bottle.

"Well," she says, "that’s big talk coming from someone who’s chosen to live in the  _oh-so-terrible_  America."

He tenses. She doesn’t know of his past, doesn’t know what drove him to the States, to a land across the bloody ocean from a place he once used to identify as home. So, he laughs it off. He’s always found humour to be his best defense mechanism, and if she catches on, she doesn’t say anything.

"If there’s one thing I do enjoy about this nation, love, it’s the fact that the women here are far too easy to make swoon," he turns to her and raised and eyebrow with a smirk, purposely making his accent thicker with each word of the sentence.

She shifts her eyes from the screen to him with her mouth set in a thin line. She gives off no indication to be following through with his little charade, but somehow, he feels something of a spark of electricity shoot between them. He doesn’t know if he’s just been awake for too long or if it’s her too green eyes and golden hair catching the last rays of sunlight from the window behind her that are making his fingertips tingle with a fervorous need.

He’s still staring at her, he realizes he can’t seem to stop himself from doing that with her, when she abruptly stands.

"I’ve got to wake up early tomorrow," she says with an edge to her voice, "and I’m quite exhausted from yesterday. I’ll - uh - see you later." With that she shuffles across him and straight down the hallway into the study, or what he assumes is now her room.

He’s still trying to process what just happened when his friends join him in the living room with a bowl of popcorn and questioning eyes when they notice Emma missing. He tells them she was tired and retired early, something he wishes to believe himself as to not take her departure personally.

And if his best friends notice that he sulks through the rest of the evening, with his eyes constantly darting to the space she was occupying beside him and his mind clouded with thoughts of her, they don’t mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone has it bad for Emma, doesn't he?  
> Leave your feedback in the comments, please! I love you all for following this story!


	4. Slow Recoveries

“Are you going to inform the police?”

Even though she should have been expecting it, the questioncatches her off guard. She’s on the couch, her legs crossed with her laptoptucked on top of them while she searches for jobs in the area – she doesn’t really feel up to working, but she knows she needs to throw herself into something in order to get her mind off of Walsh. Clearly, her brother had not received that memo.

“No, David,” she sighs, placing her laptop on the small table in front of her and turning to him as he makes coffee in the kitchen. It’s Saturday morning, which means she’s been here for almost a whole week. She’s not sure if she’s proud of herself for keeping it together for so long (she’s very good at completely ignoring her problems), or annoyed at herself for hiding out in her brother’s apartment like a fucking hermit. 

“Why not, Emma?” he adopts a softer tone and moves to sit next to her on the couch.

“Not like I have any proof of his felonies, anyway,” she counters.

“He  _told_ you he runs an illegal business, which makes you a witness.”

“Actually, I found out because one of his idiot clients called the house phone by accident. I have no doubt he got rid of any evidence about it. He admitted it, sure, but Walsh is a smart guy and he has too many political contacts for me to run a case against him with just my word against his.”

“Emma, I’m a part of the law enforcement, I’m pretty sure I can figure something –“

“I’m a part of the law, too, if you happened to forget.”

“Not presently, though,” he says matter-of-factly. He was such a dad. “I just don’t see why you wouldn’t even want to  _try_. What if he’s running something bigger than just an import business? You could bring a stop to it.”

“I can’t do it, David,” she huffs and makes her way to get some coffee. She really can’t have this conversation at this time of day without a shot of caffeine. Or two. Or six. Or maybe something stronger. She debates spiking her coffee with Irish Cream that she knows David keeps in his corner cabinet – she’s been here a week and through a terrible breakup, she knows where the poison is – but she decides against it.

“Emma,” she groans at his fatherly tone, “you know I’m just trying to protect you, right?”

“Yeah,” she sighs out, and he’s standing behind her now. “It’s not that easy,” she says, her back to him while she keeps her voice low for the sake of a sleeping Mary Margaret in the next room. “I still care about him, David.” She tries her best not to let her voice waver, to not break, to not feel like how she felt the first time this happened. Because it has happened before, and though she’s sure he can sense the eerie déjà vu as well as she can, he doesn’t comment on it. Because he  _knows_ how hard this is for her – to be fooled twice, just by a different man this time.  _Shame on me_ , she inwardly scoffs to herself.

She turns around as he opens his mouth to say something probably discerning her for herself-depreciation, but just then a sleepy eyed Mary Margaret walks into the room with a lazy  _“Good morning”_  and Emma shoots her brother a look to _just drop it_.

It’s not that she minds talking about her problems with Mary Margaret. She just minds talking about her problems, period. David has a tendency to push it out of her, something he’s done ever since they met in high school; at times it comforts her, but mostly it just irritates her. And if Mary Margaret is involved, the two turn into a tag team of counselors, and she can’t even handle one of them with her fresh wounds, how the hell is she supposed to handle two?

Luckily, David gets it. He goes to kiss his girlfriend and make her coffee, and Emma takes the opportunity to grab her morning fix and phone and slip out of the apartment with a mumbled sentence about getting some fresh air.

-/-

_What the hell do you mean you're in Boston?_

Emma groans when her phone sounds with the incoming message. She's seated very comfortably on the floor outside her brother's apartment, trying to explain to Ruby, in between sips of her coffee, why she can't meet her for their weekly lunch. Her phone chimes once again.

 _It can't be for a skip, you usually tell me if you're leaving town for that._   

So, she hadn't told Ruby that she'd quit her job either. Technically, she'd only left it about two weeks ago so it wasn't that big of a deal. She knows she should, though, considering Ruby is her only friend in the city (besides Walsh... _actually,_   _scratch that_ ). Ruby and Emma had met at a diner (the one that Ruby's grandmother owned, to be more precise) at about 3 in the morning, when Emma had stumbled in with bruises, thanks to her perp, and the other girl had given her coffee on the house along with minor medical assitance. She'd started visiting the diner more often then, and found Ruby easy to talk to, forming a quick and pretty strong bond between the two. When everything had started falling apart around her, at least Emma had a rock in the eccentric and lively waitress-come-therapist that was Ruby Lucas. Before she could type out a sentence, her phone chimed for a third time.

_Is this about Walsh?_

Her friend knew they were having problems - what she didn't know was that Walsh was a lying bastard that should be locked in a prison cell.

**_More or less._ **

_Em, why didn't you tell me?_

**_Everything happened too quickly. I'm not even sure if I'm keeping up properly._ **

_I can be in the city by tomorrow._

**_Ruby, calm down, I'm fine._ **

_Woops, sorry, just took a week off from work. Granny is also insisting I bring you some cheesecake._

Emma shook her head and let out a soft laugh - it  _would_  be nice to see her friend. Plus, she knew after she let Ruby in on what happened, she wouldn't be the smothering kind like her loveable elder brother.

Emma’s still grinning at her phone when a voice breaks her from her thoughts.

"Did Dave run out of couch space, love?" She jolts her head up to find a grinning Killian Jones standing on the top stair and  _man_ ,  _did he get more handsome every time she saw him?_  "Because, as you know," he says walking to stand in front of her, "I keep my door open for you at all times."

She rolls her eyes and lets a little smile slip from her lips. "If you must know, I just needed some air."

"Aye, the couple can get a tad," he pauses as if he's searching for the right word, "suffocating."

"You're telling me. I couldn't get through my morning cup of joe without a basic interrogation. Guess that’s what you get when your brother’s a cop."

"I know the feeling, lass," he sighs. He stands there, a good two feet away from her, studying her face and she recalls how she felt him almost reading her every thought the last time she had seen him - discussing the atrocity of a television show and then his flirting.  _Oh God, his flirting_. It made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time and she was  _not_  ready for all those feelings right now. Which is exactly why she did what she did best and ran from him. "Well," he chimes in with a smile, "I'll leave you to it. A grueling night of work has me exhausted, so if you'll excuse me."

She nods, remembering his occupation - Mary Margaret had mentioned something about him being a marine engineer, and she'd noted that that was probably why he smelt of the sea.  _("He works pretty random hours, but we have dinner or lunch together whenever we can; mostly weekends,"_ she'd said.)

"Oh, and if you'd like to slump on my couch and watch awful cable TV, you are more than welcome," he says as he open his door, and he seems almost  _hopeful_ , but Emma disregards the idea immediately.

She lets out a laugh, feeling lighter than she had earlier in the morning, all thoughts of her problems disappearing entirely. "Maybe next time, Jones."

His grin is terribly goofy and she finds herself mirroring it as he winks at her (he actually  _winks_  at her) and moves into his apartment, closing the door. She tilts her head up and bangs it on the wall she's leaning on, wondering what cruel joke the world is playing with her. She knows she can't get involved with someone - especially not right now, not when she's a complete fuck up when it comes to relationships, always trusting the wrong men _._ But obviously, the universe has different ideas, throwing a blue-eyed man that has the ability to make her feel like a child. She’d met men like him before, the ones that made hollow promises and covered them up with charm. No, she definitely  _could not_  fall into this pattern again.

Resolving to get a control on her insanely wild feelings,she sighs heavily and glances back at her phone, typing in a quick reply to the friend she'd forgotten about thanks to an infuriatingly gorgeous man.

**_Well, you know I can't say no to her cheesecake._ **

_Perfect. Love you, Em. I'll see you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by every hit I get on this, you guys are the best!  
> I realise this is very slow burn but we'll get there eventually. Our idiots will have more interactions soon, I promise.


	5. You Make It So Easy

Killian Jones has never really considered himself all too lucky when it comes to love.

He figures it started when he was 10, standing on the edge of, what he then deemed as, adolescence. Jenny Goode had been his first kiss - he remembers her with dark pigtails and freckles spread across her nose. She had also been his first heartbreak, leaving him not two days later for another lad from his class. Liam, his much elder brother, had teased him incessantly about his “ex-girlfriend” while his mother merely grinned from her place on the couch and offered to make him his favourite chocolate chip cookies.

His first real girlfriend was when he was 15; the relationship between him and Rosie Collins is what he describes, to this day, as puppy love. Liam had shouted the term to him as the couple held hands for the first time. When she broke up with him nearly a year and a half later, jet black hair tossed behind her as she walked away, he was convinced he’d never feel again. His brother had ruffled his hair and told him that he still had a long way to live, that this was only the beginning, that they should get some ice cream to make the pain go down smoother.  _Chocolate chip_ , he’d said, and Killian felt not only the loss of love, but the loss of his mother.

And then came Milah. Milah, with her crystal blue eyes and dark brown curls, turning him into nothing but a  _lovestruck bloke_. He assumed that would be what Liam would name him, had he still been alive when the two met. He’d never known someone so spirited as her, so willing to brace whatever came forth, so strong, so alive. She was the only thing he had to hold on to and Killian knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, loved her enough that he would give his own life to her had she asked. And then, she left. Four years later. For another man. He didn’t have the will to find himself anything to ease the hurt, so he turned to his kitchen cabinet and spent the next thirteen months nursing bottles of rum and whiskey and anything else he could get his hands on; just to drown out the feeling of being alone, of never being good enough, of breaking everything he touches.

And now, he finds himself here. He’s not in love, he knows that. (He doesn’t know if he’s still  _capable_  of love; doesn’t know if he can let someone in just to see them walk away, or be taken away.) He barely knows her, but perhaps it’s the similar twinkle of being left alone that shines in her eyes that draws him to her. Perhaps it’s her golden hair or emerald eyes. Perhaps it’s the way she laughs. (When she laughs.) (He likes making her laugh.) He doesn’t know for sure.

But, he does know he likes being around her - if only for a short while. She’s been here a week, he thinks, and he’s only run into her a handful of times, but she leaves him breathless just the same.

_Maybe next time, Jones._

He grins.

"Killian?" He’s shaken out of his thoughts by Mary Margaret’s soft voice, and he realizes he’s been staring at his intertwined hands that rest on the top of the kitchen island. "Are you alright?"

"Absolutely, milady," he smiles at her. "Just been an exhausting couple of days at work, is all." He’s not  _lying_ , per se, it has been a tough few days overseeing new projects, but the truth is, he’s always buried himself in his work as a form of escape, exhausting himself just enough so that he can fall into his bed, blacked out.  _Better choice than the rum_.

"I’ve told you this before," she carries a tone resembling that of a mother, "you shouldn’t work so hard, you’re going to drive yourself into the dirt."

"Aye, I’m well aware of your thoughts towards my work ethic," he says lightly.

She hums, moving to take out a few items out of the cupboards –  _to bake, probably, she does enjoy that_. “I’m just looking out for you.”

"I know."

"One of Emma’s friends is joining us for lunch today," she says off-handedly, but just the mention of her makes his ears perk up instantly.

"Oh?"

"I think her name was Ruby, she’s driving up from the city." Killian hums, feigning disinterest. "It’s nice she’s getting comfortable here," she adds quietly, "I missed her."

He offers her a sad smile. He figures some people are meant to come back into your life. And some aren’t.

"Those two should be back any moment from the store," Mary Margaret quips, glancing towards the front door. "Wanna help me finish these up?"

He nods and gets up to assist her in scooping raw cookie batter onto a tray and mixing together some icing. “Peanut butter frosting,” she tells him, “Emma’s favourite.” Killian doesn’t know if this warrants as  _knowing_  her, but he tucks the piece of information into his mind for later.

( _God, he needs to get a grip._ )

-/-

When Emma and David get back, Mary Margaret automatically assigns him to cookie icing duties as she prepares lunch. Her boyfriend assists her, which leaves Killian standing right next to Emma (shoulders almost brushing) as they partner up for the task.

He steals glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking, somehow attempting to read her through her actions. She’s less reserved now with her shoulders dropped and her movements less jerky – perhaps she has gotten more comfortable here. ( _Perhaps, she’ll stay –_ he shuts down that thought as quickly as it comes.) He thinks she’s warming up to him because she smiles at him and makes conversation even when not forced to.

He looks over at her when they only have a handful of cookies left.

“You have a little,” he starts quietly, gesturing at her cheek once she looks up at him curiously.

“Hm?”

“Frosting.”

“Oh,” she flusters and he really  _should not_ find this so endearing but apparently, his heart does not wish to agree with his mind. She swipes the back of her hand across her face in a poor attempt to rid herself of it, and he shakes his head smiling.

She tries once more, looking up at him with questioning eyes and he chuckles.

“Here,” he lifts his hand without thinking and slowly wipes off the stray peanut butter from her skin. He doesn’t realize that she’s frozen in her spot until he actually makes eye contact with her.

_Shit._

_Bloody idiot._

One beat passes. Two. Three. The tension practically sizzles around them. He doesn’t have the courage to look away. Or, he just doesn’t want to. 

What he  _really_  wants to do is kiss her.

_He’s an idiot._

She clears her throat. “Thanks,” she says, barely above a whisper, and then directs her attention down towards her last remaining cookies.

He holds in a breath and tries to finish his batch as best as he can with his slightly shaking hands and thoughts of her lips on his.

-/-

"What’s the deal with hot guy?"

Killian fights back a chuckle as he hears Ruby whisper (or  _attempt_  to whisper) from the kitchen. He’s sitting alone in the living room, the couple having ducked into David’s room for a few moments.

Ruby had arrived in the middle of their lunch, bearing cheesecake and a hard hug for her friend. From the small talk that they’d managed to make, he’d concluded that she was as much as a firecracker as Swan was.

"Ruby, ssshh," Emma harshly whispers back.

"What?"

"He can probably hear you."

"Not like he’s never heard it before, that man  _knows_  he’s hot."

He hears Emma groan and pictures her rolling her eyes.

"So?" Ruby prods.

"He’s David’s neighbour," Emma sighs finally, "lives across the hall."

"And…?"

"And what?"

"Do you like him?"

"Goddamit Ruby, you of all people should know not to ask me that."

There’s silence for a few moments, and Killian starts feeling guilty for unintentionally eavesdropping when Ruby speaks again.

"I know, Em, I’m sorry. It’s just," he hears her hesitate, "you seem to get along well and you laugh when he’s around and I thought –"

"You thought wrong," Emma snaps. And he feels a cold shiver run down his spine.

 _Right._  Why would she like him, anyway? He’s barely a part of her life. He’s barely anything to her. He breathes out a heavy sigh as David and Mary Margaret join him on the couch, and he wills the thoughts to leave him.

Some people are meant to stay in your life. And some aren’t.

 _But_ , he wonders as he watches Emma place a tray of biscuits on the coffee table and let out a soft laugh at something David says,  _what if you fought for someone to stay?_

He catches her eyes and she gives him a smile that he swears makes his heart stop.

After all, if there’s one thing his friends here have taught him, it’s to never give up hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are blowing me away with your response to this story. When I started writing it, I didn't think anyone would read it. I appreciate each and every one of you so very much!


	6. I Knew Better Than

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block has been killing me - I just needed to get this out because I've been neglecting it way too much. Feedback is always welcome! (Christina Perri's "Trust" goes well with this chapter, hence the title.)

_“Where the hell are you going?”_

_Walsh’s fingers wrap around her arm and jerk her back to face him. She can see the fury in his eyes, but she can also see the fear – and she may love him, still, in some corrupted corner of her mind, but she does not have to deal with his bullshit any longer._

_“I’m leaving,” she says sternly. “This,” she pulls her arm out of his grasp, “is over.”_

_He scoffs and she can feel her blood boil; these past two weeks have been hell as it is, her staying with him purely out of the worry that no one else will take her, while he takes little notice of her now that he seems to think he has her wrapped around his finger. She balls up another one of her shirts and shoves it into her suitcase – even if no one takes her in, being on her own will be a thousand times better than being with him._

_“Where are you going to go, Emma? You have no home, no family to run to. No one is going to even look at you twice.” He turns her back once more to face him, “You’ve been alone your whole life. Do you really want to fall back into that state again?”_

_He’s right. Of course he’s right. She’s been broken her whole life – left aside and unwanted for the most part of it. But she knows he doesn’t love her – he just needs her to be on his side, so that she doesn’t rat him out to the cops. His words are an endless loop that he’s been repeating to her ever since she confronted him about his illegal acts and_ God _, no wonder he never approved of her job. Good for him she’d quit after not being able to concentrate because of him, huh?_

_She’d been miserable in the city until she’d met him, caught up in some kind of whirlwind romance that made her feel wanted after years of loneliness. And now, she looks into his stone hard eyes, takes in his clenched jaw, his disheveled brown curls that he’s been running his hands through, and she feels nothing. He’s been lying to her for so long, and she’s certain he’s been screwing his secretary, as cliché as it sounds. She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t need him._

_She grits her teeth and pushes him back with all her force. Swiveling around, she grabs her now packed suitcase and storms to the doorway, anger fueling her every movement. She wishes she had the right mind to do this weeks ago._

_“I’d rather be alone than live through this with you, Walsh.”_

_She makes it to her car and is halfway to the main road before she breaks down crying. She moves her car to the side of the street, his words echoing through her mind as she slams her fist on the steering wheel, making her car honk. She hasn’t felt this way in years – not since Neal. And it all falls over her like an avalanche, the sobs racking through her body as the feeling of loss and abandonment makes it difficult for her to breathe. She got involved with the wrong person, again._

_She thinks about going to Ruby’s but she knows she can’t stay in this city right now. So she takes a while to compose herself and then calls David, because despite what Walsh thinks, she does have some semblance of family, and as unfortunate as it makes her life seem, her foster brother has dealt with this situation before._

-/-

Emma awakes with a pounding headache. Granted, she’s had worse, but the thought does nothing to soothe the ache that is slowly making its way down her neck and to the rest of her limbs. She groans and shuts her eyes hard.  _Right_ , Ruby had dragged her down to some bar last night that she’d heard someone talk about. Her mouth is dry and she can’t, for the life of her, remember what happened after her fifth shot of vodka. Or maybe it was her sixth. She really shouldn’t have let Ruby take her out last night.

She cracks an eye open with the resolve to go make herself some coffee when she realizes that she is definitely  _not_ on David’s couch. She’s sprawled across a terribly comfortable mattress, crisp white bedsheets crumpled to one edge of the bed and a dim light illuminating the room from behind the drawn curtains. She groans as her stomach clenches uncomfortably; it’s been a long time since she’s had a drunken one night stand and she’s awfully embarrassed but mainly, she just wants to murder Ruby because  _God_ , she is too old to be behaving like this.

She tries to muster up a plan – perhaps sneaking out through the fire escape would suffice. But, she’s an adult, she can walk out of some strange man’s apartment in last night’s clothes (which she finds she still has on, save her jeans which are thrown in the corner by the door and the fact that she can’t remember  _anything_ makes her want to punch a wall) with her dignity intact.

She shuffles into her denim pants and runs her hands through her hair a couple of times, trying to ease out the knots, while also attempting to soothe the growing throbs that were taking over her skull. Maybe she should ask the guy for some Advil and water before she leaves. Or, coffee.  _God_ , she’s been out of this game for so long, she’s not sure what exactly is considered overstepping your morning stay at your drunken hook-up’s home.

_And where the hell is Ruby?_

Despite knowing that Ruby can hold her own if need be (she’s heard stories about her from college, after all), she fishes her phone out of her back pocket to call her, and finds a text waiting for her.

_At a diner two blocks from yours with Victor. Don't know if you remember him from last night, you drank a shit ton. Make sure to take some Advil, love ya x_

Sighing with relief, she proceeds to tiptoe across the meticulously clean bedroom space, not really caring that she doesn’t have shoes on in case she needs to bolt, and quietly nudges the door open to slip out.

She reaches the end of the small hallway that opens into the living room and kitchen and immediately, she comes to a pause, taking in the oddly familiar structure of the house. The interior is different no doubt; the couches are black and leather, the walls bare of frames or any other momentos, the tables all meticulously crafted and arranged to perfection without a hint of dust scraping any surface. She turns her head towards the kitchen where a man ( _the_ man) is swaying on his feet to some jazz song playing from the speaker dock on the counter, his back to her. And before she has the chance to consider awkwardly asking him for coffee, he turns around. She rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands, wondering if she’s just seeing things because there is no way in hell -

“‘Morning, love."

Well, fuck.

He grabs a mug from the countertop, and slowly walks in her direction, jutting it out in the space between them. She finds his blue eyes hard to read, swimming in some kind of sadness and some kind of hope and - holy shit, did she seriously just have a drunken one night stand with her brother's neighbour and friend?

(Part of her laments not being able to remember having slept with him because just by the looks of him, she thinks Killian Jones must be some sort of sex god.)

(The bigger part, however, is kicking herself for being so  _stupid_.)

"Coffee?" He tilts the mug slightly, grinning. She eyes him but wraps her hands around it because she can feel the panic setting in low in her stomach and her headache is only bound to get worse.

He scratches behind his ear and nods at her, lips moving to a thin line, obviously sensing her tension. And God, she really wishes she knew what the hell happened last night.

"I found you and Ruby at the top of the stairs, rather, uh, intoxicated," he starts as if answering her unasked question. "Ruby left about ten minutes ago, said she had to meet a fellow from the bar for breakfast?"

Victor. Right. Not that Emma remembered him. She's a bit relieved that her friend didn't go home with some stranger last night, at least.

She winces ever so slightly at her initial thoughts. "Did you and I - uh - did anything happen, uh -," her voice is terribly raspy and she lets the question hang, taking a gulp of the caffeine in an effort to set her wits straight.

He shakes his head quickly, brows furrowed. "No, love, not at all. Wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to take advantage of someone so inebriated that they almost cried talking about how unfairly treated Captain Hook is." She can see he's fighting a smirk and she groans loudly, wanting to drown herself in scalding coffee.

"Oh God, not again."

He laughs then. "Am I meant to believe you defend Peter Pan's foe on a regular basis?"

"Apparently," she sighs, "Wal - my ex, he told me I'd done that on a couple of occasions." Well, she used to. Before everything went sour, before she stopped having a good time with her con of an ex boyfriend. The thought of Walsh makes her fingers itch, the need to smash something terribly imminent in her system. She looks away, urging herself to focus on anything but his perceptive gaze. "How did I end up here exactly?"

He hums lightly, moving away from her to step back into the open kitchen while signaling for her to take a seat on the bar stool. "Dave went to Mary Margaret's last night, and you said you'd forgotten your key so I accommodated the two of you in my bedroom," he shoots her smile.

And the universe must  _really_ be shitting her right now, having given her practically the perfect guy mere inches from where she landed on a whim. The perfect guy, at precisely the worst time.

She peers over at him from the top of her mug, feet slowly inching towards the stool.

(And of course he's placed Advil on the island with a glass of water. Of course.)

He's frying something, eggs she thinks, and has gone back to humming jazz music softly - the light dancing on his skin in an almost heavenly way. And she needs to leave. Needs to get out of here as soon as possible before she does something stupid like kiss him.

But, she really does want to kiss him.

Fucked. That's what she is. She's fucked.

She doesn't know him and she's already falling into her dreaded loop of getting involved too fast. Maybe it would have been easier to have slept with him and regarded it as a one time thing instead of feeling the ounce of tension that coils in her stomach every time he laughs.

She moves quickly, setting the mug down on the countertop and pushing her hair back from her face. "Thanks for the kindness, Jones, really, I appreciate it. But, I should really go," she rushes the words out.

He spins his head around to meet her eyes just as she's about to bolt for the door. "But, I made breakfast," he says. And his voice is weighed with disappointment and -  _fuck_.

"I'm sorry, I just -"

He's in front of her before she knows it. "Love, it's just breakfast. I'm not asking you to marry me or anything," he chuckles. And he makes it sound so simple. "Besides, there's no way Dave's back by now, where are you going to go, especially since," he grins mischievously at her, an eyebrow raised high on his forehead, "you seem to not be in the possession of a pair of shoes."

She nips at her bottom lip with her teeth, canceling out the smile that threatens to escape, choosing to look at her toes instead.

"Emma," he sighs out, her name rolling like honey on his tongue, and she looks up into his eyes. "I'd never forgive myself if my friend was loitering through this city half-dressed and with a hangover. Please?"

_My friend._

She senses no lie in his tone, only the utmost sincerity. And maybe, she could do with having another friend right now. If he didn't try anything, she'd be more compelled to resist her own lust. So, she nods, against the small voice in the back of her mind that pounds at her not to trust someone again.

But, his answering grin shuts that voice right up.

-/-

They fall into some sort of routine after that morning - she catches him whenever he's free and they end up sprawled across his sofa watching bad cable tv or laughing in his kitchen over something ridiculous. The weekends warrant for lunch or dinner at her brother's as always.

And, it's easy. Being friends with him.

She still feels a heated pull of affection towards him some days but she manages to simmer it down to barely a fizzle, because she can't do this. And he must have sensed her hesitation because he refrains from flirting with her as often as he can, she's noticed.

She even sees him more often now, and he says it's because all his projects are nearly finished. His voice wavers slightly but she chooses to ignore it - doesn't want this to be more than anything it seems.

She likes having a friend in Killian Jones and that's it. (No matter how much Ruby had squealed after their breakfast together, or continued to squeal over texts after she'd left.)

She likes having a haven in which she doesn't have an elder brother goading her about a job or a path or anything of the sort. (Something which David has taken to doing unconciously, offhandedly, and  _constantly_.)  He just offers her dinner and space with an arch of his brow (and sometimes a ridiculously dramatic sweeping bow), and she takes it willingly, brimming with gratitude and ignoring the fluttering in her stomach.

She doesn’t think about Walsh once.


	7. Unfolding

"Joining us for a drink, Jones?" Robin stands at his office door, hip resting on the frame, eyes glancing down to where Killian's hands fumble to grab his car keys off of his desk.

“Afraid not, mate, maybe some other time,” he flashes his colleague a smile as he moves to exit the room.

“You haven’t been out with us in a while,” Robin blocks his path, standing stone still with narrowed eyes. “The lads and I were wondering if everything was alright?”

The problem with having a reputation of a workaholic, Killian thinks, is that once he starts taking time off from work, his colleagues (they’re more like his mates at this point) begin to worry about him. It’s ironic, really, that they think he may be going through some kind of emotional crisis because he chooses to go home and not stay in his office after hours, or go out for a pint. Frankly, the lack of alcohol consumption on his part makes him rather proud. Sure, he'd toned down the heavy drinking marginally in the past few months, but this, this is a different feeling.

Then again, he can’t blame his friends for thinking of it that way. They didn’t know him before the States, before Milah, and Liam, before the days started blurring together and he was left all alone. They know him as someone who works hard, and gulps down drinks in merriment. And, of course, initially it had been more to drown out the dark thoughts than to actually enjoy the company or the buzz of the city. But it had become a habit; he had learnt to live with his demons, learnt how to become good company despite his thunderous emotional state, learnt how to act like it was all alright, hoping that one day, like everyone around him, he’d begin to believe it, too.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to rid himself of those thoughts. He chooses, instead, to plaster on a smirk for his friend.

"Don't tell me you're starting to get soft on me, Robin."

Robin's hearty laughter fills the air as he moves backwards out into the corridor, obviously accepting Killian’s divergence of the topic. Killian flicks his office lights off and shuts the door behind him as he follows Robin out to exit the building.

"Never," Robin moves to walk beside him, clapping a hard hand on Killian's shoulder. "Just make sure you're there for the charity event next weekend, Jones."

"Aye, wouldn't miss that for the world," he smirks, "I am aching for a repeat of last year's performance."

His friend groans heavily.

The event last year had, in fact, been an absolute disaster, courtesy of Robin getting rather drunk and mindlessly flirting with Regina, one of the event managers. Her boyfriend had been none too pleased and had promptly introduced Robin's right jaw to his fist. Killian had spent the night handling the injury and coaxing his friend out of his drunken stupor in between bouts of roaring laughter.

"You know I think I still have that bruise." Robin rubs his fingers lightly over his jaw and scrunches up his nose.

"Drama queen."

"Laugh all you want, Jones, but the only way I'm getting punched this year would be by my date in the case that I decide to pay mind to another woman besides her."

"Ah, so you finally managed to trick Regina into going with you." 

Robin had ( _stupidly_ , Killian feels the need to add) pursued the woman after that drunk night, rejoicing when he found out that Regina had dumped her boyfriend a few months later. She, however, did not harbor the same intense affections for him, remaining cold towards him; Killian figured that there was a reason people dubbed her the Evil Queen of the industry, after all.

"I think the word you’re looking for is  _persuaded_ ," he grins, pushing the entrance door open, a gust of wind hitting their faces as they step out into the parking lot. "Are you bringing anyone?" He can hear Robin’s voice edging with curiosity.

He slides a thumb along the key of his car, nipping at his bottom lip with his teeth. A flash of blonde crowds his mind instantly, a fleeting thought of her hand in his as he dances with her, her laughter pooling around him sweeter than any melody. He shakes his head, willing the thoughts to flee but can't help the small smile that makes its way on to his face.

He looks at Robin to reply with a  _no, of course not_ , but finds the man with a twinkle in his eyes, a smile of interest and amusement curling on his lips.

He opens his mouth but Robin cuts him off. "You have someone in mind, don't you?"

Killian gives him his best incredulous look, fighting the urge to run his twitching fingers through his hair.

"Gods," Robin's voice is louder now, laced in merriment and he feels like  _such a teenager_. "The elusive Killian Jones has a  _crush_ ," Robin's palm shoves into his shoulder, pushing him to stumble in his steps.

Killian sputters, "I do  _not_  have a crush." But it's hardly loud enough to be heard over his friend's joyous laughter. And  _God, why is this such a big deal anyway?_  Sure, he hasn’t felt something for someone since Milah, but - no. He does not have a crush on Emma Swan. It took him a fair while to become friends with her, and he has no intention of ruining it or scaring her off that way. Hell, it’s barely been over a week since she’d stumbled drunk into his apartment, staying until a while after breakfast, against all odds.

(He will not admit to how much his heart fluterred when he’d tucked her into his bed, and how it rammed a right bruise against his chest at the sight of her dazed and flustered state the next morning.)

“Well,” Robin breaks through his inner monologue, “if you don’t have a crush on her, then you’ll have no problem in bringing her as your date.”

He groans. “You’re acting like a child.”

“Jones,  _you’re_  the one acting like a child by refusing to admit to your feelings.” They reach their cars, conveniently parked beside each other, and Killian looks over to find his friend grinning.

“Sod off.” It’s all he offers before he gets into his car and all but slams the door closed. He can’t help the grin as he rolls his eyes when Robin taps on his window and laughs out a final  _Bring her!_  before getting in his car and pulling out of the lot, saluting him a good night.

Killian sits in the darkness of his car for a few minutes, the grin still playing on his lips - he tells himself it’s because of his friend’s antics and  _definitely not_  because of the blonde that has taken up a temporary residence across the hall. ( _And a permanent residence in your head,_  a voice in the back of his mind interjects, making him groan.)

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket then. The brightness of the screen pierces the dimness around him as he takes it out, his brow furrowing at the notification on his lock screen, eyes going over her name multiple times before he swipes it open.

_Picking up dinner from the diner, do you want some? David is at MM’s tonight._

It’s short, and at first glance, devoid of any emotion. But Emma Swan is an easy woman to read, and the fact that, despite her painfully obvious walls, she’s offered him her friendship, is a thought he holds on to dearly. He brings a hand up to scratch behind his ear as he shifts in his seat, mind reeling to find the perfect response and  _God_ , since when was he this hopeless around the opposite sex?

**_Just about to leave work so, yes, I would love some, Swan._ **

He settles with that, and locks his phone, head falling back to hit the headrest of the car seat. He’s not sure whether he should be cautious or casual, the whole ordeal involving Emma completely throwing him off kilter. When his phone vibrates once more, he scrambles to see her reply.

_Drive safe, see ya._

He’s unexplainably glad that this conversation is via text rather than in person because he’s sure he’d be far too embarrassed by the goofy grin on his face. It registers that she never asked him what he wants to order, but  _really_ , the woman could bring him cow fodder and he’d eat it without fuss. He throws his phone on to the passenger seat and sighs happily as he buckles in his seatbelt. 

And okay, maybe he does have a crush on Emma Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being shorter than normal. I love you all for your feedback to this story, your comments warm my heart to no end! 
> 
> (p.s. I'm also on tumblr under piratesails if any of you wanna follow me there and read the little drabbles and one-shots I write and also flail about the finale with me)


	8. Sway

Unlocking the door to the apartment, she tells herself that it's no big deal. They're _friends_. Friends have dinner with each other all the time. Between their regular conversations over text messages and the routine they seem to have fallen into of spending all their free time with each other, inviting him over to David’s empty apartment for simple, greasy diner food is nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, it unsettles her a bit because things are good and she knows something is bound to go awry eventually. Not to mention, she's undoubtedly attracted to him.

She groans, places the takeout bag from the diner on the table and goes to change out of her leather jacket and jeans into something more comfortable. She's technically still living out of her suitcase, her foster brother not having enough room in his small apartment to accommodate her. It's not like she can blame him, she's the one that sprung out at him out of nowhere, and just like all those years ago, he'd welcomed her in with open arms. Sighing, she knows she's going to have to look for a place soon.

Or, she could just get in her Bug and start driving. She’s done it before, that’s how she got to New York after all - albeit with a number of stops in between. And if Emma was good at one thing, it was running; staying in one place for too long never did her any good.

Running a hand through her hair - a tangled mess if she's ever seen one - she settles on dealing with it all later. Once she’s done changing and tying her hair up in a messy side braid, she goes to take out the food and lay it in the oven so it stays warm until Killian arrives.

She doesn’t have to wait too long, his rhythmic knocking sounding through the apartment about fifteen minutes later. She shakes every ridiculous thought from her mind and flings the door open, and God, maybe she should have put on something more classier than her cotton shorts and threadbare sweater. Killian Jones stands in front of her in a gray button up - top two buttons undone as she's come to know he regularly does - with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark wash jeans clinging perfectly to his legs and a broad smile that outshines his tired eyes.

“Apologies if I’m late,” he saunters into the apartment once she opens the door wider, “but I did bring compensation.” He lifts up his hand and her eyes fall on his fingers curled around an unopened bottle of wine.

“Nice gesture but the last time I got drunk, I ended up in your bed,” she says playfully and throws a pointed look at him.

He chuckles, “That’s the idea, love.”

She rolls her eyes as she moves to take the food out of the oven, tries not to dwell too much on how normal she feels about the fact that his flirting has become a staple part of their conversations.

She'd put in an order for some dinner combo that the place was offering; two grilled cheese sandwiches, a classic BLT, and a serving of onion rings on the side. She'd bought extra french fries for him, too. She finds it strange that she knows he prefers them over onion rings, or that if he could, he'd slip bacon into everything he ate. But she tells herself she went to school to study criminal justice, she literally has a degree stating her keen observational skills.

It did feel weird, though, buying a meal for two - it's been awhile since she got takeout for anyone other than herself. Even with Walsh, they either ate at home or out at a restaurant in the early few months. She only ever got takeout for herself if she had a working lunch - or, after she found about Walsh's sideline activities; she couldn't exactly stomach her food if his lying ass was seated right next to her.

"Do you require any assistance?" Killian says, breaking through her unwanted thoughts. She chances a look behind her shoulder to see him with his forearms crossed across his chest, body leaning against the wall that acted as an entryway to the kitchen. She wonders how long he's been studying her plating the food, hopes her disgust for Walsh wasn't evident on her face.

"Nope, I got it."

They settle down on either side of the couch, placing the bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table in front of them. After an extended argument about what to watch (“ _Peter Pan_ sounds good, and I’d love to hear more of your thoughts on the heroic Captain Hook” “You’re never going to let that go, are you, Jones?”), they settle on the first instalment of _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , because God help her, she can’t say no when his eyes light up as he sees the title and his mouth forms a little pout in plea.

He steals an onion ring off her plate and she swats at his hand lightly but he plops it in his mouth quickly, smiling smugly at her before digging into his own meal. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Swan, but, how was it that you were out of the apartment this evening?”

She sighs. It’s no secret between the four of them that she’d been more or less camping out in David’s apartment and, while David and Mary Margaret know why she’s here, it occurs to her that she hasn’t mentioned anything about it to Killian. And, he hasn’t asked. The first week, she’d been dragging her feet, trying to get over the betrayal, recoiling into herself and drowning in self-pity. But afterwards, she’d just stopped trying to make any of it better, much to David’s chagrin, who had brought out his fatherly tone far more times than she could count in the past week. But, she had, in fact, gone out today after seeing an ad in the paper.

“I got a job,” she shrugs, not taking her eyes off the plate that’s resting on top of her crossed legs.

"Swan!" His voice is loud above the soft volume of the tv, and she looks up to find his eyes fixed on her, brimming with joy, white teeth flashing a stark contrast against the dark stubble. He's practically bouncing in his seat and he moves towards her as if to hug her but inches back almost immediately, "That's brilliant, love! And,” he leans over to the table to grab the bottle, “it calls for a toast!"

She smiles sheepishly as she accepts the glass of wine he's just poured out. "It's nothing, really, it's not even an actual job. It was - I saw this thing in the paper about them needing volunteers at a youth protection centre in the area, so I don’t know." She remembers how difficult it was in the foster system, remembers how she'd just wanted someone to help her, then. But, it’s something of a cop out, she thinks. It’s a volunteer job, which makes it easy for her to leave whenever she wants to, to dump her suitcase in her trunk and start driving. She wants to maintain some sense of a working life, she’d decided when she saw the ad, but it’s a temporary solution.

She doesn't notice Killian's hand on her wrist until he swipes his thumb across her skin. "Swan, that's amazing," his voice is quieter but there's a hint of wonder in it that makes her want to believe it, "you're helping children who've little hope left. It's a noble act, and I, for one, am very proud of you."

He's smiling so softly at her, the feel of his hand on her skin sending small jolts through her veins, and she finds herself stuck staring into his terribly clear blue eyes. She clears her throat, blinking a few times, and pulls her hand out of his grasp. His expression flickers to one of dejection but it's gone so fast that she would've missed it if she hadn't been paying attention.

She raises her glass, mustering up a smile, "To almost-jobs."

He mimics her action, "To you."

She practically chugs down her wine, trying to ignore the burning desire to trail her fingers along the curve of his smile.

"David's going to be happy," she smirks after a while, trying to ease the tension his unwavering gaze always seems to bring about.

"Aye," he chews on a french fry, "he's quite the father figure, isn't he?"

She hums. "The first time I met him, he insisted on dropping me to all my classes because he said he didn’t trust any of the boys in school,” it’s one of her fondest memories; David’s over-protective instinct had annoyed her and frightened her all at once, but after not being able to shake him, she’d accepted him as the only stable thing in her life at the time. Which is what made the whole Neal fiasco even worse when it all but ran her into the ground.

“School?” Killian knits his eyebrows together, “Did you and Dave not grow up together?”

 _Oh, right._ He knows about the foster care, just not about the fact that she actually hadn’t been officially adopted until David came along. “Uh, no,” she runs her thumb along the rim of the glass, debating on whether or not to relay her past to him - the last time she did that, Walsh made sure to remind her of it during every argument they had.

She waits a few beats, wondering if she stays quiet for long enough, he’ll drop the conversation. Lucky for her, he seems to get the hint. He leans forward to place his empty plate on the coffee table, pushing himself comfortably into the back cushions of the sofa with his glass in hand.

“Well,” he starts with a small smile, “the first time I met him, he helped me move my furniture into my apartment. He's been good to me, your brother." She notices the wistful look in his eyes, something tinged with a little pain, something terribly familiar, before he replaces it with a scrunching up of his nose, "Although, he does seem to enjoy reprimanding my waltzing skills."

"He _did_ take ballroom dance classes with Mary Margaret in college, so I think he knows what he's talking about," she jests, laughing.

His hand flies to his chest and he gasps in mock pain, only causing another laugh to bubble out of her mouth. "You wound me, Swan. Though, that does sound like a challenge."

One of his eyebrows shoot up in an obvious bait, and she can't help but mirror his expression, her lips curling into a smirk. His eyes dance with mischief and  before she knows it, he’s picking the glass and plate out of her grasp and placing it on the table, only to grab both her hands and yank her off the sofa, causing her to shriek through her laughter.

He pulls her to the space between the edge of the sofa and where the dining table sits.

“You know there’s no music right?” He places a hand on her waist, his touch feather light and barely there. The movie is still running, she notes, even though she can barely make out the words with the volume so low, with Killian so close to her.  

“A good dancer doesn’t need music to dance,” she rolls her eyes at his cocky grin as he positions her other hand in his. He’s far too near, his scent wafting around her (a sharp thing that reminds her of the ocean), eyes even bluer from this close up, and maybe it’s the alcohol in her system or the fact that he hasn’t stopped smiling, but she lets her fingers curl around his shoulder.

“But for _your_ sake, Swan,” he smirks before he begins to hum some upbeat tune she’s heard on the radio more than once, pulling her to match his footing as he leads them over the tiled floor. She finds herself grinning at how utterly _ridiculous_ this entire situation is; she’s sure this isn’t a song you’d dance to like this, she doesn’t even match his semi-formal attire, doesn’t even know how to dance this lazier version of a waltz he’s orchestrating. When she tells him as much, he only chuckles and reminds her with a wink that she doesn’t need to worry because she’s got a good partner.

She hopes her cheeks are tinged with red, because she can feel the damn heat crawling up her neck as she uncoordinatedly attempts to match his stepping, move in time with his enthusiastic humming.  

It’s only a few minutes after that he slows them down, changes the tune he’s humming to something softer that seems to fit with the gentle sway of their bodies. And there’s a good distance between them - albeit closer than when they had started -, only hands touching where they should be, but just the look in his eyes is enough to make every part of her feel like she’s on fire; it’s something blissful, something gentler than she’s ever seen directed at her before, and yet it holds a frightening amount of longing. His gaze sweeps across her face as if he’s mapping every part of it and the urge to kiss him is so overwhelming, her stomach clenches painfully. And, _God_ , this is exactly what she needs to avoid because she _can’t_ \- she can’t do this, can’t give herself up this easily again. She feels panic clawing at her throat, because if there’s one thing she’s learnt, it’s that if you’re willing to give it despite your better judgement, men are willing to take it without another thought.

And just as she’s about to make an excuse, push him away, probably knee him in the groin if she has to, his humming fades and he takes a very small step back from her. His hand slips out of hers and he slowly brings it up to twirl a loose curl in between his fingers. The action causes her breathe in sharply.

“For someone named Swan,” his voice is so low and _this was a bad idea_ , “you’re not very graceful on the dancefloor.”

He cracks a ridiculous grin and just like that, all the tension between them melts. She huffs out a laugh and smacks him in the arm, moving out of his grasp and side stepping him to make her way to the couch.

He’s laughing when he drops down beside her, “I jest, love, you’re quite the natural.”

She rolls her eyes and grabs her glass of wine off the table, noticing they still have a good fifteen minutes of the movie left. Curling her legs under her, she mutters before tilting the glass up to her lips, “You’re not too bad yourself, Jones.”

And even though she’s settled firmly into the couch, his answering boyish grin makes her swear she’s still swaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you all for sticking with this story through my awfully inconsistent updates. I finished this chapter in between study breaks (because writing multichapters is hard work - until you have to study, then it's the easiest thing in the world). I have a final tomorrow, and another on Friday (which I'm dreading to no end), but after that, it should be all smooth sailing.  
> Thankyou for your kudos's, bookmarks, and lovely comments. Feel free to leave your thoughts on this chapter if you feel like it!


	9. Like My Mirror

The tide of feelings that had washed over him as he laid in bed after his dinner with Emma three nights ago, the clock ticking a tad after midnight, was something he expected, but the intensity of those feelings is what had caught him off guard.

The first thing that had his heart thudding hard against his chest was her attire, shorts almost sinfully short and bloody hell, he’d had to constantly avert his eyes from darting to her exposed skin. Then there was her adorable laughter, her small smiles, the fact that she’d gotten him a bacon burger and his own fries, the beautiful flush of her cheeks when she’d told him about finding such a noble profession to pursue - and, he could see the exact moments she’d drive her ten feet walls right back up, towering in between them almost painfully. He’d pulled her up to dance on a whim, a dumb little thing; he hadn’t expected the feeling of her in his arms to be so, well, perfect. The need to pull her body flush against his, to run his fingers continuously through the strands of her hair, to kiss her - he’s sure that his groan of frustration could have been heard all the way down to the ground floor.

She’s closed off, an enigma really, and yet he sees parts of himself in her. And he doesn’t know if that frightens him or not - he hasn’t felt anything for anyone in years and this, it just barrelled in straight through his front door. Literally. If there’s one thing he’d known, one thing that adamantly rang true in his mind as he buried his face into his pillow and began to drift off into slumber, it’s that he’s falling for Emma Swan. And he’s falling hard.

“Could you grab that box on the far end?” Mary Margaret’s melodic voice breaks him out of his stupor. It’s moving day; one the couple has been looking forward to for months and naturally, Killian had offered to help if they needed it.

“Of course,” he smiles at his friend and moves to grab the box and haul it outside to David’s pickup truck. Her apartment is smaller than theirs; a simple studio with large windows and brick walls, about twenty minutes from where they live. Theirs isn’t that big to begin with, but he figures it’s cozy enough for the two of them. They won’t need that much space considering they’re glued at the hip just about all the time.

David pushes the last box into the back of the truck and grins in a giddy excitement he’s only ever seen the man harbour when it comes to his girlfriend. He’s always hit with a pang of jealousy when he watches the pair of them, communicating in nothing but soft smiles and gazes.

He clears his throat and they both jolt their heads towards him. David chuckles, “Sorry, right, we better get back.”

Killian nods and gets in his own car, the backseat piled with a few small boxes - he wonders how Mary Margaret is planning on fitting everything from her apartment into David’s - and pulls out of the parking. The three of them had taken time off from work today for this specific task, Killian making use of his many untouched sick days. He finds himself not wanting to be around the office these days like he used to before, he used to feel his heart plummet at the thought of returning to an empty apartment - thus, only returning when he was too tired or too drunk to let his thoughts wander.

He’s in a relatively good mood today despite his thoughts constantly wandering back to Emma and filling his being with a strange sense of desire he’s sure he can’t act upon without scaring her away. Or maybe even scaring himself, because it’s been awhile since he’s had feelings for anyone, and the ghost of not being good enough or being left face down in the dirt is one that haunts him constantly.

He shakes himself out of it, spends the drive singing along to whatever song pops up on the radio, reminding himself to update his library when he gets the time. It’s not too long before he’s parking behind David’s truck and preparing himself for further heavy lifting.

Moving the boxes to Dave’s apartment, he thinks as he exits the car and he pushes the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows, is going to be the rough bit.

“Remind me again why it was necessary to bring along everything from your apartment?” He raises an eyebrow in Mary Margaret’s direction as he steadies one box on top of another and gathers the stack in his arms. He tries to calculate just how many trips it would take to finish unloading both the truck and his car.

“Because David insisted,” she smiles at him but he knows she’s stopping herself from breaking out into laughter.

He sighs watching David begin to ascend the stairs, silently cursing his friend, “Of course he did. The git better insist that someone fixes up that bloody elevator next.”

“Think of it as your workout for the day,” she picks up one of boxes from the backseat of his car and follows him up the stairs.

“Milady, I prefer my workouts in the company of several fair women,” he turns to wink back at her and receives a light smack on the back of his head.

It takes them around four trips of the staircase to unload everything and haphazardly set it all down, cluttering Dave’s apartment. He smiles to himself as he’s reminded of his own move to the States, the memories practically stumbling in one after the other, the whole thing feeling as though it had happened decades ago.

-/-

_He’s an idiot. He knows this for sure as he pulls his suitcase wheel free from the crack of the elevator it gets caught in. It seemed like a great idea at the time, moving halfway across the world for a new job, just to get away from the building depression that his home had started to bring; it had been a year since Milah left him, and none of the pain had dulled._

_He swings his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and groans, his throat suddenly itching for the burn that alcohol brings. Dumping the bags next to the door that the super confirmed was his, he quickly turns to the elevator before the doors can shut, dragging out the few boxes he’d brought along in a lazy movement. The coupling of hangovers with heartbreak was a sensation he’d become accustomed to, the entirety of it turning into his only friend._

_He doesn’t have much left besides what he brought along - no family, no friends, nothing but an ache in his chest and a fortunately endless supply of rum to his disposal. It was as though he was destined to be abandoned, whether it be by choice or by fate; Killian Jones was a right fool if he thought anything in his life would stay._

_He digs the key out of his pocket when he hears a door behind him shut and a voice break through his incoherent mumbling, “Need a hand with that?”_

_When he turns around, it’s to a tall man with broad shoulders and short, sandy hair. He has a certain commanding air about him that disappears when he gestures to the boxes on the ground and looks up with kind eyes. It’s bloody ridiculous, but all he sees in the man is Liam. His head swims with the aftermath of the rum he’d had last night and he sways ever so slightly, catching himself on the frame of the door. The man chuckles and makes his way towards Killian, sticking out a hand._

_“David Nolan, your neighbor,” he nods his head to the door behind him._

_“Killian Jones,” he’s proud that the handshake he gives the man is stable and more confident than he feels. He wonders again why he decided to just uproot his entire life and fly to Boston of all places. Bloody idiot._

_“Well, Killian,” David bends down and lifts a box in his arms despite Killian not having asked for any assistance, “welcome to the neighborhood.”_

-/-

“Killian?” David calls to him to get his attention.

“Hm?” Killian snaps his head to his friends who’s watching him with furrowed eyebrows, “Sorry, mate, I was just thinking about when I moved into the building.”

“Ah, yes,” David laughs as he hands him a cold beer, “you smelled of booze and looked like you were ready to pass out in the hallway.”

He hears Mary Margaret chuckle from where she sits cross-legged on the floor, shoveling through a box and placing several things beside her.

“Not my finest moment, I must admit,” he grins as he leans against the back of the sofa. It’s easy for him, he thinks, to play off his old heartache as a joke now.

“What would you have done without me?” David jests, taking a seat next to his girlfriend on the floor, placing his beer down and pulling another box closer to him.

“I ask myself the same thing about you, Dave.”

“You wish, I -”

“Boys,” Mary Margaret interjects in a tone that Killian’s sure she uses when attempting to tame the over-excited lads and lasses in her classroom. It’s a strict warning that leaves little room for argument and both his and David’s mouths shut almost immediately, a round of hearty laughter following from the three of them. It’s strange, he thinks, that he doesn’t have any family left by blood that he knows of, but it took journeying all the way across the pond for him to find these two people who dusted the dirt off of him and helped him stand back up without even knowing it. He knows he’s in more than half of the picture frames that litter David’s apartment and it warms his heart; they’re the closest thing to a family he has.

He’s only just slump down beside them to assist Mary Margaret when the front door swings open to a rather tired looking Emma. She’s bundled up in her leather jacket and jeans and the wind has caught her hair in knots; his breath catches in his throat and he nearly chokes on his beer. He needs to get a grip.

“Emma!” David’s wrapped her in a hug and then so has Mary Margaret.

“How was your first day?” Mary Margaret beams at her, and he’s inclined to believe she looks more like a mother than she does a friend.

“It was alright,” she smiles but he catches the unsteadiness of her voice, her eyes flitting towards the cluttered boxes. “Moving in day?”

Mary Margaret hums, a sheepish thing, and then hurries to the kitchen with a few words about coffee and snacks, but really, he isn’t paying too much attention with Emma still standing barely a few feet away from him. When he catches her eye, he gives her a smile that she returns. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, that he can miss someone he’s just seen the day before.

They three of them move to sit around the island, David chattering on about the amount of things Mary Margaret is attempting to squeeze into their apartment followed by his girlfriend’s mock annoyance and teasing about how he’ll just have to get rid of a few things, then.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they were married,” he leans over and whispers to Emma over the delighted banter of his friends.

The smile she gives him in response is weak, and the nod is nothing better. All he wants to do in that moment is card his fingers through her hair until the lines marring her forehead disappear entirely. All he ever wants to do is see her smile.

“Speaking of,” David chimes, pulling him into the conversation he wasn’t aware of, “isn’t the Gala this weekend?” How the two segued from their discussion to the Gala, he’ll never know.

“It is.”

“Gala?” Emma’s lips twist up in slight confusion.

“It’s this annual charity event the local university hosts for the city,” Killian starts as he turns in his stool to face her, “Dave, here, is invited because he oversees the security stationed there, and yours truly attends because the lads down at the docks have an affiliation with the Biology professors at the university. The donations all go to fund research at the institution, but really, it’s a chance for the elites to get drunk.“

David laughs loudly at that.

“The way they organise it is almost magical, there’s a live orchestra and everything,” Mary Margaret adds wistfully, ignoring the last bit of Killian’s explanation. “Oh, Emma, you have to come. You can come with Killian!”

He watches her tense ever so slightly and even though he wants nothing more than to walk into the Gala with Emma Swan by his side, he knows he can’t push her into this. He wants to say something but Mary Margaret is already discussing the dress she plans to wear and asking David about how much free time he’ll have to mingle at the event, and just like that, the moment slips away from him. He’s left with an odd sensation swirling in his stomach, a need to comfort the woman that sits beside him, one that he knows is plastering on a fake smile for the sake of showmanship.

The rest of the day goes by quickly and soon the living room is free of boxes, save one or two, but he finds himself not wanting to leave, not being able to leave. He knows his feelings for Emma Swan and he knows them to be growing with every second he spends near her. And he knows, surely, that the way she monosyllabically hums in response to their chatter mirrors the first dinner the four of them had together - or, perhaps, even worse. Something’s wrong, it’s as obvious as day to him and all he wants to do is ask her, but he’s not sure he can.

But when their excitement winds down, and Emma excuses herself to step outside, he takes his chances.

He steps out to find her perched on the top stair, eyes glaring a hole in the wall in front of her.

“You alright there, love?” She nearly jumps and he’d tease her for that if she weren’t so clearly disheveled.

She looks back at him for few seconds, nods, then turns back to the wall in front of her. He drops down next to her and he can tell she’s a bit shocked at that, he wonders how many times she must have been left to her own devices before she accepted it as a way of her life. And then, it hits him. Gods, he’s an idiot. She’s working in a place that she’s grown up detesting and even though he knows nothing of her past, he knows that it took her a while before David’s mother adopted her.

“It’s okay to talk about it, you know. I know how difficult it can be to face old demons.”

He studies her face intently as she turns to look at him; jaw clenched and eyes stone hard, glazed over from unshed tears. What he wouldn’t give to reach out and envelop her in his arms. Her eyes dart between his searchingly and then she sighs, releases a little piece of tension from her shoulders.

“I thought I could take it,” she practically whispers, gaze darting down to her hands, “and then I got to the apartment and Mary Margaret, she’s - I’m just intruding…” She trails off and the vulnerability in her voice nearly breaks him. She’s afraid, afraid of not belonging. He knows because he’s felt it more than once. Hell, he felt it with David and Mary Margaret when he first got to know them. She’s afraid but bloody hell, is she brave.

He stands up suddenly and offers her his hand, “Come on, then, love.”

She stares up at him confused but when he doesn’t budge, she eventually places her hand in his and lets him pull her up. He prides in that little victory.

"Where are we going?” Her voice is wavering, and he can tell just how hard she’s trying not to cry. Such a tough lass.

“You’ll see.”

He doesn’t look back at her the whole time as he drags her up the stairs, all the way till the top floor, but he’s still holding on to her hand. He squeezes it once before letting go once they trudge up the last flight of stairs, coming to a halt in front of the door at the end of the top step.

He jiggles the doorknob a few times, then hits his palm against the underside of it, causing a click to sound, and he lets out a triumphant hum. He hasn’t been here in a while, but at least maintenance hasn’t repaired the lock. (He hates the maintenance with a bloody passion, what with their inability to fix, let alone check up on, that damn elevator; but this, he’s glad they haven’t touched this.) When he finally pushes the door open, it’s to a sight he remembers perfectly.

The rooftop used to be his safe haven in the first year of his life here. He had the bars when he needed enough chattering to cloud his mind from working himself into a state of insanity but this was the only place he could come to to get it all to quiet down. After a while, he tossed himself into work to rid of the emptiness in his life, forgoing the visits to his spot here - a spot that no one else in the building ever seemed to want to visit, much to his delight.

He leads her to the edge, leaning his forearms on the parapet, one of her hands somehow clasped in his again. “Did you know that we live in one of the tallest buildings in this area, Swan? The great city of Boston doesn’t make for much of a view but on evenings like this, I can’t find it in me to complain.”

He casts his eyes to the sky, the hours of the evening tinting the sky into an almost purple shade as the clouds gather and then get whisked away by the cold winds. It’s not all too pretty, with the cluster of buildings and skyscrapers, the roads and the traffic. But, he’s come to find peace in it, especially the startings of the harbour that can be seen to his far right; the sea, now that has always been a thing to rest his uneasiness.

When he looks back at her, she’s watching the sky with studious eyes, her teeth still grinding but he can tell she’s more at ease. It’s only when the sun has almost submerged under the skyline does she speak, voice wavering and dazed as though almost unaware of the fact that she’s actually talking. All traces of the fact that she could have potentially started crying are gone and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel relieved or angry that she can school herself to something so stoic effortlessly as though to appear brave. He wonders how often she has had to do that.

“When I was in foster care, every time I got taken into a home, the family would always send me back because of some reason or the other. Seeing Mary Margaret and David today, it just reminded me that this is temporary, that one day they’ll just ask me to leave like everyone else has. It’s not my place and I don’t know why I started to let myself believe it was.”

“Emma,” he keeps his voice soft, tentatively stroking his thumb over her knuckles, his heart squeezing under the honesty of her tale, “when I first came here, I had nothing, no one. Dave was my first mate and he lent me a hand when I was drowning in my sorrows and, well, far too much liquor. And I know you haven’t told me much, but I sense he’s helped you before, too. They’re good people, love, surely you must know they wouldn’t abandon you like that.”

“He’s been there for me before,” she scoots a little closer to him, perhaps to share a little body heat as the wind begins to pick up, “I just don’t know how long it’ll be until he gets tired of saving my ass.”

“It is a lovely ass,” he attempts to lighten the mood. She huffs out a laugh and releases her hand from his to smack him on the chest, making him chuckle. He thinks it’s a damn miracle that he’s at that point in his friendship with Emma Swan that she doesn’t storm out on him because of a flirtatious remark.

“You’re incorrigible.” Her tone is anything but offensive.

“Honestly, Emma,” he levels his gaze with hers, “it’s hard to believe that one can be worth the trouble, but you are.”

She scoffs, “How would you know?”

“Trust me.”

Her eyes stay trained on his, and even through the rapidly approaching darkness, he can make out the flecks of hazel that compliment the startling green. She’s tired, the dark areas around her eyes would tell along with the sagging of her eyelids every half a second. She’s tired and she’s scared, but she’s beautiful beyond all doubt. He feels that zip of electricity he felt when he was dancing with her, feels that terribly torturous need to know what her lips feel like on his, and fuck, he’s so screwed.

He catches himself before he can close the distance between them, breaks his gaze from hers for barely a second, eyes darting to the buildings again.

“They want you stick around, love.” He hopes she knows by they, he means I. “Which would be why Mary Margaret invited you to that Gala,” he reminds her, grasping at straws in an attempt to remind her that she is, in fact, as a part of this group as he is. If not, more. She is Dave’s sister, after all.

“Is it a big deal?”

“The event? Not really, just a bunch of well dressed ponces mingling, helping out the community and dancing the night away,” he adds a wave of his hand when mentioning the last bit.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’ve already had practice dancing together then, isn’t it?”

She’s wearing a ghost of a smile on her lips, and he wants to believe that she’s flirting with him or teasing him, or anything really. And that’s what makes him grin. That, and the fact that he’s made her smile in one way or another. As he takes her in, standing at the one place that’s provided him comfort when he needed it the most, he can’t help but want to believe it’s all somehow significant.

The bubble of hope forming at the base of his stomach is a dangerous thing, he knows, but as he watches the ends of her hair wisp with the wind, something terribly surreal about her, he settles on believing that he doesn’t care. Emma Swan, he thinks, is worth the sun and the stars - as grossly romantic as that may be - and he will spend as long as it takes trying to prove it to her.

“Aye, that it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so sweet and encouraging, it's amazing.
> 
> In life news, I finished my last exam on Wednesday and have been out every day since (also had my high school graduation ceremony on Saturday which was wonderful!), which is probably why updates are lagging behind. Also why this chapter is far longer than the others, but I've wanted to write this scene ever since I thought of this fic and I'm very happy with how it came out.
> 
> I started two more multichapters (shorter ones, though) because I have no chill. But, it's all good fun because I can never write enough of these two idiots.
> 
> Leave me your thoughts, or tell me what you want to see next! I love hearing from you guys!


	10. Settle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys keep me going with your kind words, thankyou so much. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it! Drop me a comment with your thoughts on this chapter if you've got the time!

_"For the last time, Emma, you're going. End of discussion."_

She's been on the phone with Ruby for the last two hours, taking up residence in a booth at the diner - the diner that Ruby does not approve of because she insists Granny’s is far better (with a touch of sadness, Emma has to agree) - after work; she’s doing basic filing and assisting this week because she’s new and they’re still teaching her the ropes, so she’s off earlier than the rest of the volunteers in her shift. She’s been relaying the events of the past few days to Ruby, telling her friend about work (which is still difficult to deal with, but she’s working on it), and about Mary Margaret moving in (she tries to convince herself it's like college - even though she knows it isn't).

(What she doesn't tell Ruby is that she never lets the gas in the Bug drop below the halfway mark, scared that she'll want to leave one day and the means will just kick more dirt in her face.)

(She doesn't want her friend to worry unnecessarily, especially considering that as of late, she's started getting threats from Granny via Ruby, making sure Emma's taking care of herself.)

Ruby had shrieked when Emma had mentioned the charity event (she’d opted to leave out the fact that she’d nearly broken down and burrowed herself in Killian’s arms on the roof after her God-awful day - she doesn't want to think about her moment of vulnerability too much, let alone relay it to her friend who’d make a big deal out of it), and then almost burst Emma’s eardrum when she’d said she was going with Killian.

She had to remind Ruby that it was  _not_  a date. She wasn’t ready for that, something strikingly apparent considering she still managed to squeeze in a vague question about Walsh's current whereabouts between their conversations every now and then despite Ruby's annoyance.

Emma, just, has a lot of jumbled emotions she has no idea how to deal with.

But, ever since she’d had a momentary burst in confidence in agreeing to accompany Killian, her thoughts had been darting back and forth, anxiously wanting to change her decision. She’s not opposed to it at all, it, just, kind of feels like a big deal. Even if Killian had assured her it isn’t.

“Ruby,” she swirls the straw around in her chocolate milkshake, following the motion with her eyes, “I don’t even have anything to wear.” She knows it’s a weak argument at best.

_“You have tons of dresses.”_

“Let me rephrase, I don’t have anything to wear that I haven’t handcuffed someone in.”

 _“I’m sure Killian won’t mind if you kept to that tradition,”_ she can practically see Ruby's lips turn up in an almost feral smile. She groans.

"I'm serious."

 _"So am I,"_ she snickers, but when Emma sighs, so does she.

"Killian might not even want me to go with him."

_"Did he say that?"_

"No, but -," she starts weakly when Ruby cuts her off, voice softer now.

_"Look, Emma, you know I'm not one to give you lectures, but you need to stop making excuses. Something made you say yes in the first place, and I know you well enough to know that your gut instinct is always right.”_

“Tell that to the gut instinct that told me to go on that first date with Walsh,” she mumbles vehemently.

Ruby audibly sighs,  _“Not every guy is like Walsh, Ems. And no one’s asking you to fall into Killian’s arms or anything, it wasn’t even him that asked you to this thing in the first place, right? I know you’re scared and you’re still adjusting but it’s one night out. You deserve to get all dolled up and drink free champagne. So, get your ass out of that knock-off diner and rummage through that pile of clothes you call a closet.”_

It takes Emma a few seconds to digest Ruby's speech but she's sliding out of her seat before she knows it, leaving a few crumpled bills on the counter with a nod to the waitress. "When did you get so wise?"

_"Granny's rubbing off on me."_

“It’s about time.”

 _“Shut up,”_  Emma huffs out a laugh at her tone.  _“Oh, and no one’s going to say anything if you have a hot make out session with him, so-”_

“Now, there’s the Ruby I know.”

-/-

She finds Mary Margaret at the dining table when she enters the apartment, papers strewn all across the flat surface, her eyes trailing attentively over the one in her hand. Emma’s learnt in the last few days to move around according to everyone’s schedules; David returns from work in the evenings, and Mary Margaret is back by late afternoon. It’s easier to coordinate bathroom rights and kitchen duties that way.

Emma has to clear her throat to catch Mary Margaret’s attention, her friend’s green eyes shooting up and crinkling at the edges with a smile once she notices Emma.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” she puts the paper down and gets up to move towards the kitchen. “Did you have lunch?”

Emma smiles, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck; Mary Margaret has always looked out for her in a way that she imagines most mothers would, and it seems despite in her absence, that aspect never changed. “Yeah, I stopped by the diner.”

Her friend hums and fills the kettle with water before placing it on the lit stove, “I’ve got leftovers in case you get hungry, anyway. You should join me for lunch one day,” she adds hopefully as though she knows that Emma’s been avoiding spending one-on-one time with her (she probably has, but mostly unconsciously), “maybe we can go somewhere that won’t line your stomach with layers of grease.”

Emma nods softly as Mary Margaret sits back down, picking up her red pen and flicking over the papers. It makes her smile knowing that her friend achieved the dream of teaching that she had ever since they were in college - or, actually, longer, if Emma remembers correctly.

She moves to her worn out suitcase that’s still stashed in the corner behind the couch, unzipping it and fisting through old shirts, pairs of jeans and far too revealing dresses purchased for solely luring in idiotic bail jumpers. She gives up, rests her head on the arm of the couch and groans.

“You okay?”

She swivels around to Mary Margaret frowning. “Yeah, yeah I just - it’s this whole charity thing tomorrow night, I don’t really have anything to wear,” she shrugs out pretending like it’s no big deal. (It is no big deal, but then, she  _just_  made up her mind and there’s some ridiculous part of her niggling at her and telling her that she’ll miss Killian’s smile and sarcastic comments about the crowd if she doesn’t go.)

(Now is  _not_  the time for that.)

“Oh, Emma, that’s no problem,” Mary Margaret’s up and excitedly dragging her to her and David’s bedroom before Emma even realizes what’s happening. She throws open the cupboard lining the wall and begins shifting through her mostly pastel coloured clothes. Emma’s always seen her friend as what a princess would look like if she were dropped into the modern world; she’d been sure the first time she met Mary Margaret that the girl would start singing to birds at any given moment.

She moves to protest, to say that she could just run down to a thrift store and pick up something from there with the money she’s saved up. But Mary Margaret breathes out a soft “Aha!” and spins around with a dress in her hands a hopeful grin lighting up her face, and all of Emma’s denial shuts straight up. All she can do is nod and smile as if the entire thing isn’t entirely overwhelming her with a wave of nostalgia.

She and Mary Margaret spend the rest of the evening on the dining table where the brunette finishes marking her student's papers, Emma even assisting with a few of them while sharing a few stories about the kids and other volunteers at the center. She barely knows any of them, vaguely describing them and rattling off their names, her friend listening intently and asking questions about the job.

“Are you coping alright with it?”

It’s the first motherly comment she’s made since they’ve seen each other again; Mary Margaret knows she was abandoned as a child, knows how David helped her and David’s mother, Ruth, adopted her, but Emma assumed that after all this time, she’d gotten over trying to help her come to terms with it, giving up on worrying about her like she did back in college. The hesitant concern in her friend’s voice makes her think that maybe she didn’t, maybe she’s just been trying to give Emma some space.

“I am,” she tilts her chin up ever so slightly as if to prove her point, finding that some part of her believes the statement. Or, believes in its possibility.

The day seems to go by quickly, spilling straight into the next afternoon and suddenly she finds herself holed up in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror and smoothing her hands over the bodice of the dress. She can hear Mary Margaret excitedly whispering to David outside the door and she has to take a few deep breaths before she steels her resolve and exits into the hall, nerves gnawing at her stomach.

At the sight of her, Mary Margaret lets out a small gasp that quickly transforms into some kind of half-squeal before she wraps her arms around Emma, bringing her in for a tight hug, whispering, “You look beautiful.”

David offers her his hand and twirls her around once before fixing her with an adoring gaze and she’s struck with the notion that he’s thinking about all those years ago, and how this would have been what the start of her night to senior prom would have looked like had she attended it. He shakes himself out of it, telling her she looks wonderful, telling her that mom would be so happy to see her like this, planting a very fatherly kiss on the side of her head.

(She has no doubt he's going to send Ruth pictures later. Despite Emma not having spoken to her in the time she's been living with David. Or, for a while before that even.)

She takes in her friends as Mary Margaret wraps her hands around David’s arm; he’s in a fitted grey suit while she’s in a strapless pastel pink dress, a slim black belt around the waist and the layered skirt flaring out to settle at her knees.

And Emma doesn’t believe in the notion of true love; but if she did, she’s sure that the couple standing in front of her would be the epitome of it.

She mumbles an embarrassed thank you to both of them and ducks into the bedroom to grab her clutch, giving in to stopping in front of the full length mirror on her way out of the room.

Mary Margaret’s dress is as simple as it is beautiful; it’s clearly vintage inspired, with its boat neck, pleated skirt - resting a few inches below her knees -, a very light and intricate floral pattern on the whole sleeveless material that is so close to the original light champagne colour that you’d almost miss it. There’s a dipping V in the back of her dress, leaving a part of her skin bare, but she doesn’t mind too much with her hair falling in soft waves over it (Mary Margaret had made her sit in front of the dresser and done her hair and makeup as if no time had passed between now and their last college party).

She has pumps and a hint of red lipstick on and she’s sure she looks far more confident than she feels, wishing to death she doesn’t fall flat on her face or say something stupid tonight.

She knows she pretends to be someone else on most of her fake-dates and it shouldn't be any different than that. But this is real, an actual annual event for the city, and it's people her friends know and work with and it's kind of pressurising.

She exits the room finally to hear conversation coming from the front door, only hearing Killian’s deep laugh (how she knows it’s  _his_  laugh and not someone else’s is something she doesn’t want to discuss) when she’s at the end of the hallway. His back is to her but he swiftly turns on his heel when he notices Mary Margaret ushering her towards the little group.

And she knows it’s stupid, but it’s as if the world slows to a stop around them, all she can feel being the rake of his gaze as he takes her in from head to toe and back, eyes pausing to lock on hers. He’s in a slim charcoal grey suit, white button up, and black vest and tie. She hasn’t seen him in almost four days, and the she wonders if it’s possible that she forgot how handsome he is.

She’s way too deep into... _whatever_  this is.

“You look stunning,” he tells her once she’s made her way to stand in front of him, and she tries not to blush under his obviously appreciative gaze. She wants to tell him that that suit and his carefully messed up hair makes him look unfairly attractive, makes her notions of "too soon" fly out the window, makes her want to kiss him. She settles on telling him he looks alright, and he, with a smirk, raises an eyebrow, spotting her lie immediately.

Mary Margaret takes a few photos with her phone of all of them, Emma posing uncomfortably, not really knowing what to do with her hands. Killian offers to take a few of the couple, and then the three of them. It’s only when Mary Margaret ushers her and Killian together into a picture of just them that he guides one of his hands to rest on the small of her back, narrowly avoiding touching her bare skin. She’s still a bit tense, unsure of if she's capable of fitting in with everyone at this supposedly fancy event. As if he senses it, he leans down to whisper a, “Just breathe, love," into her ear.

She glances up at him and he looks down to smile at her, his words from before tumbling into her mind.

_Trust me._

She half expects him to pull out a corsage between the photo session because she’s becoming painfully aware of the fact that her two housemates have orchestrated this to seem more like the high school prom she never had. She buries the thought, not wanting to dwell on her past right now as she grabs her coat and lets David lead them to his truck.

Besides, she poorly tries to convince herself as her dark haired sort-of-neighbor slides in next to her in the backseat and offers her a smile, it’s not like Killian is her date.

Right?

-/-

She downs two flutes of champagne in the first five minutes, and then spends the next ten wringing her hands together. David had told her about the schedule of events on the way; first mingling, then a few speeches, some kind of auction of items, a bit more mingling, dinner, dancing, and then, what do you know, mingling. She spots the charity tables set up now that she looks around, watching several well-dressed people making their way towards each booth.

She wonders for a split second how glamorous it might be to lead a life like that; the only worry being picking the right charity to donate barely a quarter of your money to.

"Sorry I lost you in the crowd, love," Killian's beside her suddenly, passing a tumbler holding amber liquid into her hands. "Rum," he clarifies.

"That's okay."

He shakes his head, "You don't know anyone here, it's not right of me to leave you stranded among these," he scrunches up his nose as he looks at the crowd, "people.”

She smiles into her glass, "Not a big fan of the socialites?"

He raises both his eyebrows at her as if she already knows the answer to that question. (Then again, she kind of does.)

He leads her to a table, his hand barely brushing her back and she's abruptly reminded of how warm his hand was in hers when he'd led her to the roof. "It's not that I'm not a fan, they're all here for a good cause after all. I just find it rather challenging to converse with them; no common ground so to speak," he pulls at his collar slightly as if it were choking him, sighs, "If my brother could see me now in this penguin suit, he'd surely call me a wanker."

"You have a brother?" He's never mentioned a brother before.

He seems to still his movements, barely breathing, "Had. He, uh, passed some years ago."

Her gut clenches. She doesn’t miss the melancholy in his eyes, and she wonders if this is why they click so well. They seem to understand each other through the familiarity of loss and suffering.

She knows there's been some sort of shift between them since the day on the roof, a slow building trust that seems to strengthen with every passing day.

She doesn't know what to say ( _I'm sorry_  seems too trivial, and she's never been good with words) so she covers his hand that's resting on the table with her own, hoping to offer some kind of comfort. He seems to understand, smiling sadly at her. He sucks in a breath and then the pain in his eyes is gone, replaced with a mischievous glint that can only be a commonly practiced motion, "What say we raise a little wager to keep things more lively, hm?"

His attempt to change the subject is painfully obvious, but she knows better than to stick her head where he doesn't want it. She slides her hand off his to take a pull from her drink, "What do you have in mind?"

He looks around, hums, then points to a table that's been filled near the front of the stage. "You're quite perceptive, which one of them do you think will be the first to get roaringly drunk?"

She cocks her head to the side to regard him and then shifts her eyes to the table; she should be able to judge a person's drinking capacity by now considering she bets on getting some of her perps drunk first so they can't run too far. She picks a stout looking man with a beard.

"Ah, yes, Leroy," Killian informs her, "good choice. I'll go with the blonde on the left, her name's Cruella."

"Isn't it cheating because you've been to these before and know these people?"

"I'm a guest, Swan, not the bartender. My guess is as good as yours," the smile he gives her seems more like a wink.

"So, what do I get when I win?" There’s something about Killian that turns her more...playful, more relaxed than she’s been in a while.

"Aren't you so sure of yourself?  _If_ you win, I pay for your lunch for the next two weeks,” she nods because it’s not like she’s earning money anyway so this might be good. “And if I win,” he pauses, lips curling into a smirk and lowering his voice to a murmur as if it’s meant only for her, “then you reward me with a kiss.”

_Wait, what?_

She opens her mouth to contradict him but she’s interrupted when a man slides in on the empty seat next to Killian, his hand clapping Killian on the back as he laughs and says in a smooth English accent, "So you decided to make an appearance after all."

“I told you I’d be here,” Killian’s smile is easy.

The man’s eyes flit to Emma and back to Killian and then again to her before he extends his hand in her direction. "Robin Locksley, pleasure to meet you."

She smiles, shaking his hand, "Emma Swan. Are you the same Robin whose hair Killian had to hold back while he threw up his vodka alongside his heartbreak?” Killian had told her the story of his co-worker and his drunk antics while on the way to the gala, leaving her laughing away a few of her nerves.

“I did not -,” he turns to Killian exasperatedly, “do you tell everyone that story?”

Killian’s grin only broadens in reply. Emma settles into easy conversation with the both of them, finding herself thrown in between their banter, despite her thoughts settling back on the bet every now and then. Soon Robin’s date, a Regina Mills who seems very professional and slightly intimidating in her navy blue dress and perfectly styled raven hair, joins them and Emma manages not to make a complete mess out of herself. Their table is soon filled by Mary Margaret, David, another couple - Aurora, who teaches at the university, and her husband Phillip, who is the CEO of some tech firm -, and a woman named Elsa, part of the alumni of the university, who happens to be a foster care attorney.

She clicks with Elsa almost immediately, their shared interest in the children of the system, though still painful to discuss for her, allows her to form a bond with the other woman.

She finds herself in between conversations with everyone on the table, at ease with her surroundings. And, okay, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to attend this thing.

-/-

By the time the end of the auctions roll around (Phillip and Regina bought one item each while David attempted to stop Mary Margaret from bidding on just about every antique rolled onto the stage), Killian's arm is casually resting on the back of her chair. She can't find it in herself to mind and  _God_ , she should probably get a grip and figure out how to stop the flush on her neck from spreading when he sends a wink her way every time Cruella downs another drink.

In the second allotted time for mingling ( _really, who needs an actual schedule to talk to people?_ ), she walks around with Mary Margaret and Killian after David dashes off to make sure everything in his department is running smoothly. She already knows that Killian is close with her brother and his girlfriend, but as they move around the immaculately large and beautifully decorated hall, she notes they have some kind of easy sense of comradery between them; their conversations flowing without hesitation, even when they run into someone they know or meet someone new. She notes that for someone who claims not to have anything in common with the guests, Killian sure knows how to make a good impression on people - he’s definitely a charmer by nature.

Emma’s steps falter slightly and soon she’s walking behind them instead of beside them - suddenly feeling out of place despite her earlier good mood. She debates on heading back to the table but then Killian catches her elbow in his hand, pulling her forward to stand next to him while Mary Margaret chats with a redhead. He furrows his brows in question and steps closer to her. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but the gesture is comforting, caring, and something she’s definitely not used to. How he can understand her so easily is beyond her.

She gives him a smile, for good measure, and he replies with a crooked one of his own, squeezing her elbow once before dropping it and then leading her to the bar with a promise of a drink.

Close to the time for the beginning of the dinner, Leroy has stumbled across the stage and grabbed the mic, proposing they hold a karaoke night, his voice slurring all the words together. Cruella, even though she's clearly had more drinks, seems to be standing upright still. She elbows Killian in the ribs as he's watching the spectacle, puts on her most triumphant grin and says, "Guess you should start saving for all those lunches now, huh?"

"Alas, you've bested me," he sighs but he's smiling right along with her.

She’s stuck practically knowing that some part of her is disappointed she lost this bet. ( _Hell_ , every part of her probably is.)

“You should only take up bets you know you can win, Jones,” she sips from her glass before putting it back down on the empty bar top. And, is she seriously openly flirting with Killian Jones right now?

“It’s not often that someone bests me, love, and even so, I’m a hopeful man,” he waggles his eyebrows at her, runs a tongue over his bottom lip, and the action should  _really_ be illegal.

She scoffs, and even through Leroy's colourful curses as he's wrangled off stage (David's going to have a field day dealing with complains come Monday morning), she finds herself unable to pay much attention to anything but Killian's stark blue eyes.

"It's not prom, I'm not going to kiss you at the end of the night," she fires back. Not like she would know if that actually happened in real life, or just in the movies.

He hums, "I never did get kissed at the end of my prom. I did, however, almost get punched by my date's ex. I would say the term "kissed with a fist" would be duly appropriate, but he missed. Even he didn't want to  _lay one on me_." He mimics the term in a poor American accent that sounds more cowboy than anything else. She laughs and he runs a hand over his jaw; she's compelled to trace the path with her own hand.

These days, all she seems to want to do is roam the expanse of his exposed skin with her fingers. That's how she knows she's so fucked.

"I never went to my prom." She doesn't mean to say it but she finds herself wanting to tell him.

"How come?”

She pauses. "It's a long story."

"My schedule's pretty clear," he gives her a crooked smile and reaches forward to tuck a curl behind her ear. She has to quell down a shiver. "That is, if you'd like to share."

He seems to keep surprising her with his thoughtfulness and before she can help it, she leans forward and lightly pecks his cheek. "Maybe later," she says quietly as she moves back.

The way he looks at her then is enough to make her breath catch. His gaze intense, open, and a bit confused. More than anything, she wants to kiss him, her lips itching still from the scratch of his stubble.

But, no, she can't do that. Because even though he seems perfect, there has to be something wrong with him. There always is. They all start this way and end up, by her track record, as criminals.

So, even though all she wants to do is step closer, let the warmth between them grow, she side steps him to make her way back to the table. "Come on," she can't help but rest her hand on his shoulder as she passes by him.

She doesn't know what she's doing but she can't seem to stop, digging herself deeper and deeper into this damn hole. As she makes her way to her seat, Killian following behind her, all she can feel is the heat of his gaze burning straight through her.


	11. Wildfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing, thankyou so much for keeping up with the story and leaving me the sweetest comments! Be sure to check out a manip Jess (nightships on tumblr) made for this story, she's such a precious cupcake. This chapter is much longer than the others so I hope it satisfies.

Killian’s skin is tingling, it’s as though a stray spark from a roaring bonfire jumped onto his left cheek. He wants to run his fingers along it but the cause of his unnerving desire is seated right next to him and surely that would make her uncomfortable. Wouldn’t it? He actually isn’t too sure. He finds himself continually off balance when it comes to Emma Swan.

He'd figured even if he won the bet (he’d set his condition because it's just in his nature to flirt with her, he truly can't help himself), she wouldn't  _actually_ kiss him. He’s come to know how skittish she can be. From the bits he’s gathered about her, she’s been hurt before - perhaps even several times - and her being here, with David, well, he can only draw the conclusion that she’s running from something, some _one_. Hell, that’s what he did. No matter how much he wants her to open up about it, he doesn’t want to push. And no matter how much he wishes she’d feel the same about him as he does about her  

He stares at his tomato soup more than he drinks it, hyperaware of every little movement Emma makes. She's chatting with Elsa and Mary Margaret while he's trying to pay attention to Robin's questions about the latest ship that's come in for repair (he guesses it’s better than Robin questioning him about Emma, after all, though he is expecting those queries to come in as soon as the two of them are alone).  _Bloody hell_ , how can he be expected to pay mind to anything when his heart is slamming a hard rhythm at Emma's close proximity and his own rapidly growing desire.

 

 

They've been growing closer, he's sure there's been a building of  _something_  ever since she stayed for breakfast after her night out drinking. He can still recall her lazy, if slightly reluctant, smile over coffee and pancakes, and his own giddy happiness for days after. And now, now it's unabashed want thrumming through his veins. He's sure if they were alone, it wouldn't be as easy to control himself as he is now.

"Killian," Robin's harsh whisper in his ear just about scares him, an involuntary jerk going through his body.

"What?" He hisses back, looking up to see Robin and Regina both eyeing him. He raises what he hopes is a nonchalant eyebrow.

Regina snickers and it sounds more menacing to him than she probably intends. She keeps her voice low but is still somehow audible over the chatter in the hall, "Who knew Jones was one to yearn?"

He tries to feign hurt but even he can't bring himself to knock down what he knows is true. It's a weak, "I don't yearn," that he replies with.

Robin and Regina share a look that Killian does not want to spend his time analysing, opting to finish his appetiser instead. Despite his teasing, he has to admit that Regina and Robin do make quite a pair despite their clashing personalities. Then again, his friend has a way of softening up even the toughest of cliffs; it’s how he got through to Killian during his first year of self depreciating loneliness.

“I thought you had it bad before, mate, but seeing it in person is a whole other endeavour,” Robin pipes up. Killian grumbles unintelligibly, shoving a spoonful of soup into his mouth, praying that Emma doesn’t hear his idiot of a friend. If she knew just how much he thinks of her, he’s certain she’d resolve to either hostility or blatant refusal - and he’s sure he can’t take either without falling apart.

The entire dinner goes by in a haze of conversation with everyone around the table, the occasional mumbled "love struck puppy" comment from Robin and Regina, great food and the added bonus of watching David knock down one drink after another once he returns from sorting out the mess that Leroy made. By the time dessert is served, Dave is grinning like the happy drunk he's ought to transform into come three more drinks while Mary Margaret expertly extracts the car keys from his pocket to place them in her purse. When Emma laughs, he realises that she must have caught the subtle action too, and the two of them share a look of amusement.

She looks down to gingerly swallow a spoonful of her creme brulee, humming in contentment, her lips darting out to catch the lingering taste. He has to make a conscious effort to drag his gaze away from her lips.

This charged air between them is going to be the death of him.

And the fact that Robin is elbowing him in his side with a smug grin on his face isn't helping.

He resolves to ignoring the bastard and focusing on discussing the recent events of the university with Aurora - maybe if he can talk business, he won't be so aware of the heat between him and the siren of a woman sitting next to him.

(He knows he's  _wrong_.)

(The heat between them could surely cause a fire in the bloody Antarctic.)

The only way he thinks he can keep his feelings (and other more obvious indications) in check is by taking control of the situation, not letting it run amuck and leave him behind with a slack jaw and more  _want_  than ever before.

So, when the band (the same set of five people they'd had last year, tuned to perfection in his opinion) begins the first few bars of a jazz number, he takes a tentative sip of water to clear his dry throat and turns towards Emma.

Her eyes are trained towards Aurora and Phillip as they get up and link arms to walk towards the dance floor. It's not a slow number but it's not fast either, a tune one would be comfortable simply swaying to if they wish. Not that that's what the guests are doing; even in dancing, there's an element of showmanship, he could scoff -  _rich blokes_. A man he doesn't recognise in a dark blue suit asks Elsa for a dance. The woman shoots Emma a smile and says, "See you out there," before taking the man's extended hand and letting her lead him away from the table.

Emma's still watching Elsa stalk away when he stands and removes his jacket, draping it over the chair. He doesn't know if she's hopeful or nervous by the way she's fidgeting with the ring on her middle finger, but they've done this before. They've talked about doing this now. So all he can do is hope that she hasn’t changed her mind.

"Swan," he says. She turns around to face him and he extends a hand towards her, "Won't you dance with me?"

She gives him a soft smile as he leads her to the floor, and he needs to get a  _sodding grip_  because all he wants to do is stare at her lips as they curve upwards.

It's a welcoming feeling to have her back in his arms, moving to actual music this time - not that he'd mind humming any number of tunes to fill the air for them if she'd ask. She's glancing around the hall, a twinkle in her eye that makes him think she's appreciating the intricate decoration, which even he has to admit gets only better year by year. But despite the beautiful accents of gold on every item, his eyes are trained on the woman before him.

"Did you really almost get punched?" She asks, stirring him from his admiration of her features.

"Hm? Oh, aye, I did," he half-smiles. He finds himself spilling parts of himself to her that he hasn't given to anyone in so long. When he mentioned Liam, he'd done it unconsciously, his guard down as if he hadn't told himself a thousand times over that he'd never revisit that past. It hurt too much to think about any of it. But with Emma, he wants to tell her everything no matter how much reopening the wound aches him.

"No wonder you and Robin are friends," she smirks, "must be an English thing."

He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, grateful for the banter that is present to distract him from the knotting in the base of his stomach, "It’s bad form to generalise, love."

The smirk disappears abruptly for but a moment, a flicker in her eyes that he can't place, before a small smile is plastered on. She only hums in response.

He tightens his hold on her waist and pulls her closer, chuckling when she lets out a little squeal. He leans into her space and keeps his voice low, "Besides, I’ve been told most women prefer bad boys.”

She clears her throat and he wonders if he affects her as much as she affects him - he certainly wishes so. “Whoever told you that obviously didn’t have any first hand experience,” she says softly, eyes darting away from his. 

Unconsciously, he tightens his grip on her hand, the sincerity in her voice making him want nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. The band begins to play their next song - slower, softer - and she’s quiet for a little while, eyes trained on his tie and nothing else. He rubs his thumb along her knuckles, wanting to provide her with a comfort for God knows what she’s lost herself in,

She looks up at him, green eyes a little subdued. “The first guy I fell in love with would fall under that category and he screwed me over,” she cocks her head and smiles - but it’s a cruel, self-deprecating thing.

“What happened?” He asks quietly, slipping his hand off her waist to run the pad of his thumb along the wrinkles forming on her forehead because of the furrow of her brows.

She exhales and he pulls his hand back despite the urge to continue running his fingers along her skin. “I might need a drink to tell you that story,” her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and he recognizes her words as a dismissal so he nods shortly, willing to let the topic drop.

But then she’s stepping backwards and pulling him by the arm towards the bar. She orders them a tumbler of rum each with a cock of her eyebrow in his direction and then downs half her glass in one go. He sips from his own glass, carefully watching her. She starts walking towards the double doors that lead to the corridor outside and he follows as she sits on a cushioned bench by the door.

There are a bunch of people mulling about but it's quieter outside, with the soundproof walls only letting out a slight bass beat of the band. She takes another pull from her drink and he opens his mouth to tell her she doesn't have to open up old wounds here and now but then she speaks softly. "Remember how I said I missed my prom?" He nods. "It was because the morning of it, I practically ran off with him. We were kind of together - we always got into trouble together, anyway - he was older, wanted to leave Portland and I didn't want to be left, not again. David warned me not to do it but I didn't listen.

"We drove to New Hampshire and almost all the way through Boston. He said something about going to Tallahassee and the idea of having a life, a future, with someone I loved, who made me feel wanted, it was great. We were in a motel the night after that, but when I woke up, he was gone." She sighs and he clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth. "He wasn't a good guy, he'd been in trouble with the cops before, I knew that, but I was in a shitty foster family and it was good with him. Up until he stole what money and jewellery I'd ran away with and left nothing but a note that said he couldn't take a chance staying in the States with the cops still on him. I was devastated. I managed to convince some woman at a grocery store to let me use her phone to call David. He was angry but more than anything, I think he was relieved I was okay. Him and Ruth drove for hours to come pick me up, and soon after she started looking into adopting me, said she wanted to keep me safe. I haven't heard from Neal since, I don't think he ever wanted to take me anywhere with him in the first place."

By now his hand has curled into a hard fist, and he's sure the muscle in his jaw is twitching to no end. But no one deserves that kind of cruelty, especially not someone as strong and wonderful as Emma. She's staring into her empty glass and he covers her hand with his, as she'd done with him before.

"I apologise, love, that you had to go through that. That man was nothing but a coward who took advantage of you," he says gently, trying to meet her gaze.

She raises one shoulder in a poor half shrug, "At least I had my grades up, anyway, so I could get into the same college as David."

He tucks a curl behind her ear and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb, not willing to drop his hand this time.

"I thought David and Mary Margaret might have roped me into tonight as a kind of second chance at my prom night," she half laughs, as though she doesn't want to know if it's actually true or not.

He smiles at that, the possibility that he has assisted in some manner, that he's been a part of a milestone in her life makes him feel ridiculously happy.

"I haven't told that story in a while," she muses after a few quiet moments.

"Thank you," he says and she looks up at him questioningly so he adds, "for trusting me. I can't imagine that must have been easy."

He can tell by the defeated slump of her shoulders and the faraway look in her eyes, can see her vulnerability so clearly that it's piercing him. All the little bits of her exposed soul he's seen are nothing compared to this; she looks like a lost girl, and it hits him square in the chest how much of himself he sees in her. 

"Yeah," she mumbles and then chews on her lower lip, "that's only one of the many tales."

With his hand still lingering by her face, he cups her jaw firmly so she’ll look at him. "We've all got demons, Emma,” he says thinking of his struggles with his own past, “but what matters is that you don’t let them define your future. You’re a strong lass, and I hope you don’t forget that.”

She doesn't say anything, only continues looking at him, and he's certain her eyes dart down to his lips a few times. But he won't initiate anything, not when she's just laid her past at his feet so openly. He wonders if it's because of the alcohol in her system or their budding relationship.

(He wants to believe so terribly that it's the latter.)

As he traces her face with his eyes, he feels the burning heat barrel right back into his system with full force, an overwhelming tug in his stomach that makes him question his decision not to claim her lips right here and now. Lord knows how he’s maintaining his self-control when she’s looking at him with something so close to longing in her eyes.  

He definitely can’t be imagining that.

"We should get back," she breaks their tension-ridden silence.

"Aye," he has to shake his head slightly to get out of his thoughts, "I suppose we should.” We may be able to catch another dance or two, what do you say?"

She smiles as she stands. He does the same and she threads her arm through his, letting him lead them back into the hall and to the floor. He doesn't catch Regina's smug smile or David's inquiring eyes, he's far too busy enraptured in the siren song of Emma's glinting eyes.

-/-

They're nestled into David's truck with Mary Margaret at the wheel while the man himself is grumbling about being " _not_ that _drunk_." Killian stifles an amused laugh as Mary Margaret rolls her eyes.

He catches Emma's gaze and mouths 'married' and she has to catch her lower lip between her teeth from bursting out into laughter. He thinks this expression of hers is his favourite, the one teetering on the edge of bliss. Again, he has to remind himself not to stare at her lips when she smiles at him. A task that's proving to be far too difficult than necessary.

When they reach the apartment, Mary Margaret and Emma walk up the stairs first while he's tasked with assisting a tipsy Dave who refuses any help but can't even manage to stand upright. He's always been entertained by how much of a lightweight his friend is, and how he downright dismisses that notion whenever they bring it up.

David grumbles under his breath as Killian slings one arm across his waist and uses the other to settle the other man's arm over his own shoulders, practically dragging him up the flights of stairs. “Come on, mate, just a few more steps.”

When they reach their floor, David all but stumbles inside his apartment with a tired “G’night,” over his shoulder. Mary Margaret shakes her head, grinning, and follows him. “See you for breakfast, Killian,” she calls to him before darting her eyes between him and Emma and giving him a smile.

“Certainly, m’lady,” he replies as she steps inside and closes the door behind her, leaving it unlocked for Emma.

He turns to her in the awfully dull lighting of the corridor to find her looking up at him through her lashes. He’d groan at that if he could, seeing her so unguarded for such a long period of time has only heightened his affections for her, and it’s driving him bloody mad.

“I had a nice time tonight,” her voice is gentle between the storm of his own desire.

“I do hope me bringing up your...,” he gestures vaguely towards her with one hand, the other impulsively going to scratch behind his ear, hoping she understands that he is speaking of her past that they discussed, “didn’t, uh, dampen the mood.”

Emma shakes her head and he lets out a small breath of relief.

He shuffles a bit closer to her at that and drops his voice to just above a whisper, “I’m glad you accompanied me, my night would not have been the same without you by my side.”

He realizes that he finds himself in this position quite often, barely a breath away from Emma Swan and barely concealing his raging urge to kiss her senseless. There’s a colouring of red on her cheeks that he notes triumphantly, sure, but it’s the red of her lips that draws his full attention.

He’s about to bid her good night with a sigh and retire to a night of frustration when in half a beat, she slams her body into his, lips crashing together with a fierceness that elicits a rather unmanly yelp from him. But his brain promptly shuts down when she begins moving her lips - hot and insistent - against his, her hands fisting into his jacket. Almost subconsciously, he responds, moving in tandem with her, one hand curling around her waist to pull her closer, the need to have her flush against him overpowering his senses. His free hand sliding up across her bare back, the direct contact fuelling his desire as much as hers, if her shiver and the goosebumps he's trailing in his wake are anything to go by.

Her hands find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer and tilting in kind to deepen the kiss. She's sucking on his lower lip and he can't help the growl that gutters against his throat. There's barely any space left between them, their bodies flush together from lips to knees; if he thought her peck caused a spark, then this feels like his whole body is rolling straight into the eye of a roaring inferno.

She lets out a moan and he slips his tongue across the barrier of her lips, stroking hers. The moment he tastes her, he forgets how to breathe. It turns into a dance that he feels like he's known his whole life, and yet it's new and catching him completely off guard. But he could get used to the way she tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck, the way his own fingers comfortably tangle in her curls.

When they break apart for air (reluctantly, in his case), they’re still fused together and panting heavily, her hot breath against his lips doing nothing to quench his desire. He drags his hand forward to swipe his thumb across her jaw, and then he looks up into her eyes; her pupils blown wide and gaze darting all around his face, settling everywhere but his eyes.

“Emma…” his ragged whisper trails off uncertainly.

She looks up into his eyes then and all she offers him is a quiet “Good night, Killian,” before she’s slipping out of his arms, and he’s left suppressing a shiver at the immediate loss of heat and contact and, well,  _her_.

He’s standing frozen like a sodding fool as she runs her tongue over her lips once and trails back towards her door, a ghost of a smile on her lips. He wants to catch her arm and pull her back in for another passionate display, or at least ask her what the bloody hell just happened. But all he manages is a hushed “Sweet dreams,” as she shuts the door behind her, the resounding click of the lock seeming too loud in the moment.

He hesitantly touches his own lips with his fingers, her taste still lingering there, and lets out a heavy exhale, because he was already far too deep, and now, there’s no way he’s getting out of this even if he tries. He trudges into his own lone apartment, and after changing out of his suit, falls into bed with a smile on his lips.

Perhaps he did win that bet after all.

The chipper attitude that accompanies him as he dresses in his jeans and grey t-shirt for breakfast at David’s (or David and Mary Margaret’s - he supposes he could just refer to it as  _the Nolan’s_ , really, if only to tease them even more) is only brought on by the promise of sharing the space with blonde he spent all night dreaming of. The visions of Emma in all her golden haired, green eyed glory all but attacked him as he fell into his slumber; despite the exhaustion he feels from dancing and the slight headache from the liquor, he hasn’t woken up this happy in a very, very long time.

He mindlessly hums a tune the band played last night - one he and Emma danced to - as he makes his way across the hall and knocks at the door. He's greeted by a cheerful Mary Margaret and a half-asleep David and at further observation, he realises that there seems to be no sign of Emma in the apartment, and his smile falls instantly.

"Where's Swan?" He inquires (subtly, he hopes) as he perches down on his seat at the table.

David narrows his eyes and shoots Killian a look over his coffee that he can't quite place. "She said she was called in to volunteer on short notice, she was leaving when I got up."

Killian nods and chews on a piece of bacon as he tries not to feel too disheartened at the absence of the woman who left his body flooded with heat last night.

_She has work, it's not like she's avoiding you._

So, he buries any self-doubting notion and resolves to participating in Mary Margaret's easy chatter about how wonderful the night was. He has to admit, there is no possible way he can disagree with that statement.

He spends most of his day with the couple, talking, lounging about and occasionally answering a few work related emails about the new ship his team will be in charge of soon. He'd planned to drive to the grocery store today and stock up on his quickly diminishing supplies, but truly, he's rooted to the spot in an attempt to catch Emma as she returns home.

But, as the morning shifts to late afternoon and there is no sign of Emma, concern begins takes over. The niggling thoughts only worsen with every tick of David's ridiculous old fashioned grandfather clock and every unanswered text he sends her. He tries calling her but after a few rings, he's met with her voicemail.

When his phone rings, he nearly jumps out of his chair but he's only met with disappointment when he finds it's Robin calling him to run over a few points about their last job for the report.

He saunters outside to take the call, trying to get his thoughts in order so he doesn't mess up any of the details. He hangs up almost half an hour later, sighing at the tiredness that's beginning to settle into his body; he was obviously only running on the adrenaline of that kiss all morning. He squeezes his eyes shut.  _That_   _bloody kiss._

When he walks back into the loft, Mary Margaret is on the phone, frowning and his thoughts run a mile a minute before he catches himself, forcing them to calm down.

"So, what time will you be back?" He hears her say as he walks to the kitchen to grab a beer. He's loathe to eavesdrop but he's almost certain she's speaking to Emma and he just can't help himself.

She makes a noise of approval and then says, "Alright, I'll leave some leftovers in the fridge."

She knits her brows at her phone when she hangs up and then looks to him and then David before saying, "That was Emma, she said there's been some kind of emergency with one of the kids and she has to stay in late."

Killian's beer tastes sour as it makes its way down his throat, his stomach dropping at her words. He quickly schools his features, though, despite the uneasiness he feels at not seeing Emma.

 _Just her job_ , he reminds himself over and over. But even when the next day comes around and he's told again that he's just missed Emma, he begins to wonder if he's gone and fucked this up, too. It's apparent he can't keep a solid relationship to save his life, and it must be a new record because he's gone and lost her before he even had the chance to have her.

He's at work early on Monday morning for a meeting that he isn't mentally or emotionally prepared for; his mind is unabashedly on the woman he hasn't been able to catch a glimpse of for the past two days, his nerves heightening and the memory of her kiss falling to the forefront of his mind every few minutes. It has taken him a right amount of self-control to not call her again, but he did send her another text last night, jokingly informing her of David’s latest Netflix antics (Househunters _, which is an absolute nightmare_ ) - but even that one went unanswered.

Resigning to his office after his (no doubt) awful meeting, he runs over the events of the charity gala night in his head, trying to pinpoint anything that may have thrown her off. But he only draws a blank, because the night did after all end with  _her_  kissing pulling him in for a kiss. His whole demeanor deflates as the day goes by, periodically staring at his phone as if willing to ring.

He thinks of Emma and her laughter, their easy banter, her lips on his, and  _fuck_ , he’s out of his mind if he doesn’t get his head out of his arse and fight for her, for  _this_  - whatever it may be. He checks the time and notes it’s just after 10, and that he still has some time before she’s off from volunteering.

He has a hopeful spring in his step as he tells Robin he’s stepping out for a few minutes, hopping into his car and making a short stop at the bakery a few blocks away before he turns in the other direction and heads towards the youth center. He’s not going to take this sitting down, he’s going to fight for it tooth and nail, because that kiss, he’s sure it meant something. Sure that she felt it, too.

Killian pulls up into a parking space, and purposely walks into the building, brown paper bag in one hand. He asks for Emma at the reception desk and when the woman behind the counter tells him that she’ll be down shortly and to take a seat in the waiting room, he nods his thanks.

He’s idly scanning the interior of the abandoned waiting room when a hissed whisper comes from behind him. “What are you doing here?”

He swivels on his heel and faces a rather annoyed Emma Swan standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest and chin tilted, eyes hard and absolutely nothing like the passionate gaze he’d seen last. And even though there’s irritation in her gaze, he has to admit that his heart flutters at the sight of her. He regards her with furrowed brows and attempts to keep his disappointment out of his voice when he speaks, “I brought you lunch, it  _was_  a part of our bet, if you recall.”

She doesn’t move from her spot and it becomes even more difficult to keep his emotions in check. “It’s ten in the morning, Jones,” she replies stoically.

“I’m well aware, love, but seeing as though you’ve been avoiding me, I wasn’t sure how or when to get this to you,” he cocks an eyebrow in her direction, the blatant annoyance at the situation leaking through his words.

“I’m not avoiding you, I’m working.”

“Don’t try that with me, Emma. Tell me, did I do something wrong? Because the last thing I recall is our kiss and that -”

“Didn’t mean anything,” she cuts him off harshly.

He’s taken aback and it takes him a few minutes before his thoughts fall into place again. “ _Didn’t mean anything_? Who are you fooling, love, because I’m certain you felt what I did.”

“It was the heat of the moment, nothing else.” He’s stalked closer to her now and from this close, he finds himself trailing his eyes over her face, hoping to find any cracks in her stone-cold facade.

“If that’s the case,” he grits out, “why have you been so hell bent on not seeing me? Or replying to any of my texts or calls, for that matter. If it wasn’t a big deal, then you wouldn’t be going out of your way to ignore me.”

“I  _told_ you, I’m not -”

“Emma,” he’s pleading now, like a Goddamn fool, “please, if it’s something I did, I -”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Their eyes are locked together and the tension is so bloody high that it’s almost suffocating. And being this near to her again, seeing her, only makes his hands itch to hold her flush against his own body.

She doesn’t reply, only breaks her gaze and looks to the side.

“Emma,” he tries again, reaching his free hand to touch her arm but she evades it by moving back an inch and his heart just  _breaks_.

“You should leave,” she refuses to look at him as she says it.

“Love, just talk to me,” his voice wavers at the end, unable to accept her dismissal. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she firmly states. It’s when he doesn’t move from his place that she glances up at him, a few strands of hair falling on her face. “Please, just go,” she adds so quietly, that he’s not sure if he would have heard it had he not been tuned to her every little movement right now.

He darts his gaze between her eyes, and though her voice sounded drained to him, there’s a storm in her eyes he cannot read. He shakes his head more at his own idiocy than at her unreadable expression. He drops the bag of food on the chair next to him as she looks away from him again and he reminds himself that whatever her reasons may be, he needs to be there and  _fight for her_.

He stalks closer to her, though, keeps his voice low for fear that it’ll break mid-sentence if he doesn’t, “ _You_  kissed  _me_ , Swan, and God knows why you did it but I know for certain it wasn’t just some thinly veiled impulse. There’s something here, and you know it, too. I told you that you shouldn’t let your past define your future, and I’m asking you now to take a leap of faith. Asking you to have a little trust in me.”

He attempts to catch her gaze but he’s only met with a long, heart shattering silence.

“Fine,” his anger bubbles at the surface as he steps out of her space, unable to stand her refusal any longer, “if you want me to leave, I shall. But know that sooner or later, you’re going to have to stop running, because it won’t do you a bloody ounce of good."

At that, he storms past her and out of the building, only his anger propelling him forward and out the sliding doors and into the parking lot. As soon as the cold Boston air hits him, his shoulders slump defeatedly as he tries to comprehend what just happened; he laid his heart at her feet and she merely kicked it away. He tries to tell himself that she’s just afraid, that she’s protecting herself - but she said she’d trust him, and now, now she was looking at him as if he was the worst thing she’d ever laid eyes on. And it  _hurts_ , because for the first time in a long time, he’d felt an ounce of hope, felt his luck finally turning. He looks back at the building, knowing he’s only fooling himself if he think she’ll ever come after him. He stalks back to his car, a numbness taking over his thoughts, and all the fight draining clear out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops?  
> (Feel free to yell at me if you wish.)


	12. Belief

The door shuts with a thud behind her, her back resting against it in an effort to keep from tripping over her suddenly weak knees. The goosebumps running up her skin make her shiver and she'd curse herself for handing Mary Margaret her coat at the bottom of the stairs, but that would require keeping her thoughts at bay for longer than a few seconds.

And right now, her thoughts are running a mile a minute - straight back to Killian Jones and his soft lips on hers. She thinks about the timbre of his voice, his palms flat against her back, his stubble scratching at her cheeks - she presses her hands harder against the surface behind her, trying to stay upright.

Emma can only shut her eyes and breathe out heavily.

“You okay?” Mary Margaret's voice carries from across the room and Emma opens her eyes to find the woman in her flannel pajamas, head cocked slightly and forehead crinkled in concern. She wonders for a brief second how long she was out there with Killian.

Emma’s lips are most likely swollen and pupils still dilated but it’s dark save the one small light emanating from the lamp behind the couch so she hopes that she doesn’t look as off-kilter as she feels. She nods and smiles, adding in an, “Of course,” for good measure.

Her friend regards her but Emma brushes it off like she’s being ridiculous, opting to slump down on the couch and toe off her heels, rubbing her sore ankles. You’d think she’d be used to wearing stilettos for an evening with the line of work she was in.

“I was about to make some hot cocoa, you want some?”

“Always,” Emma replies, rummaging through her suitcase for a clean shirt and leggings. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, Mary Margaret’s placed two steaming cups of cocoa, topped with whipped cream and cinnamon, on the breakfast bar.

She slides onto the stool, cupping the mug with her still cold fingers. You’d think she’d be used to the cold, too. “David asleep?”

“Out like a light,” Mary Margaret chuckles into her mug.

“Some things never change.” She remembers the bare minimum of parties they’d attended together in college, remembers that David would never truly realise how much he was drinking until he’d start to lean his whole body weight on any vertical surface he could find. He’s gotten better at pacing himself but it’s still adorable as hell to her, to see her tough, law abiding, elder brother be taken down by too many shots of whiskey.

For the next twenty or so minutes, Emma’s sucked into Mary Margaret’s idle chatter in her hushed tones. It’s the sound of her soft laughter and the richness of the chocolate on her tongue that eases her thoughts, lets them stray to her friend’s stories about the interesting people she’d met tonight, and about how, even with a lot of alcohol in his system, David still manages to recall all of the steps they’d learnt in their ballroom dance class. But, her cocoa was bound to finish and Mary Margaret was bound to retire to her room. And Emma was bound to be wide awake, staring at the ceiling, running her tongue over her bottom lip absentmindedly. She kind of wishes she didn’t drink that cocoa because its flavour mixes with the one that was lingering on her lips when she’d entered the apartment, changes it completely, and she finds herself unconsciously craving the slightly spiced taste of her sort-of-neighbor’s lips.

Kissing Killian Jones was a split second decision, the insurmountable tension between them finally giving way in the form of her body crashing right into his. It seemed like a great idea at the time - seemed like a great idea up until ten minutes ago, if she’s letting herself be honest. Because now, there’s a niggling in her stomach that rises all the way to her throat that reminds her that she’s jumped in again; too quick and too far and in immediate need of backing the hell out.

She trusts him because he’s been nothing but kind and supportive and  _there_  when she needs him. She trusts him enough for her to tell him about Neal. She trusts him but -

She tugs the blanket a little higher to cover her chin.

But she’s given too much away.

She knows better than to think about all the men that have let her down; it will only lead her into a never-ending spiral of doubt and self-depreciation. She’s been there far too many times already. It had taken Emma a long time to put her faith in someone after Neal, and of course the next serious relationship she’d entered into had left her heartbroken. Has left her lying on her brother’s couch without a job or a place to call her own, still wondering where she went wrong.

It’s hasn’t been that long since her first night in this apartment, and her mind reels with the thought of another man so quickly and surely taking over the majority of her thoughts and she, well, if her frantically beating heart is anything to go by, does what she considers to be her only skill, and panics.

Everything she’s seen and heard of Killian makes him seem like the perfect man and her heart may be healing slowly, but the pain of Walsh’s betrayal and his adamant refusal to choose her over  _anything_ , still stings like a bitch. It makes her remember why, after Neal, she’d thought she was better off alone.

Killian is her friend first, someone she can rely on, and now she’s gone and ruined that by kissing him. But worst of all, she actually likes him - likes him in a way that makes her heart speed up for non-anxiety related reasons -, and that dependency is not something she wants, lest she be let down again.

If Emma could, she’d switch off that part of her brain that doubts him, but her years and years of carefully constructed defenses are too high. She just can’t take the chance that she’s wrong about him.

-/-  

She falls asleep somewhere close to dawn only to wake up far too early for a day off. Reasoning that since she’s up, she may as well call the center and ask if they need an extra pair of hands, she changes and dials the number. (The other reasoning tugs strongly at her gut, but she stays determined to ignore it.) When she gets a chipper, “Of course, Emma!” from Ariel at the other end of the line, it’s all she needs to spring up and grab everything she needs before rushing out of the apartment building.

She shoots Mary Margaret an ambiguous text as she makes her way to the center, knowing her friend will worry, but also knowing that that information will, in one way or another, be relayed back to Killian.

She tries her best not to think about Killian. (She fails.) (Continuously.)

Emma turns into an empty parking spot in the lot and sighs loudly, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. It’s some kind of cruelness of the universe that she can still feel his calloused palms running up and down her back. Maybe, she thinks, it’ll blow over; maybe she can hide out for a few days and pretend it never happened. It’s not her best plan, but who’s to say it won’t work? Plus, he’s good at reading her and she hopes that if it comes to that, he follows her cue and chalks it all up to the adrenaline of the night.

Obviously, though, she has several misguided notions about her life if she thinks it’s going to go anywhere but south.

In the span of two days, she ignores a throng of text messages and phone calls from him, even coming home late and slipping into the apartment when she's sure he won't be there, for the fear of the fact that he might want to talk. And just when she thinks he’s quietening down and letting it go, she gets a message that she has a visitor. Of course he’d be here, of course he’d want to talk - about the kiss, about  _them_. Despite the irritation she feels about the whole situation, she can’t help but look at him and feel a longing. Emma doesn’t realise how much she missed him. She wants to be civil but that feeling in itself snaps her into letting her anger take control.

There’s a plea in his quiet voice when he asks her to take a leap of faith, to trust him, and she’s stuck fighting an internal battle between wanting him and not wanting to want him. Instead, she doesn’t meet his eyes, thinking that if she does, she’ll relent to the former; an option she can’t afford.

Killian steps away from her after a few beats, an anger present in his voice that has her biting down on her tongue. “Fine, if you want me to leave, I shall. But know that sooner or later, you’re going to have to stop running, because it won’t do you a bloody ounce of good.”

And then, he’s gone.

She’s still angry, still irritated and frustrated. At Killian or at the universe, she isn’t sure. At herself, maybe. The last option seems to be the most plausible one because she awoke a rage inside him that she’s never seen before, she fucked up their friendship, she’s the one to blame for all this mess.

Emma’s legs begin to tremble under the weight of her thoughts and she slumps herself down on one of the chairs lined up against the wall. Her attention catches on the brown paper bag on the seat beside her, her hands reaching for it automatically to pry the flap apart. She’s overcome with the aroma of peanut butter, chocolate, and cheese. He’d gotten her a sandwich along with a cupcake, both pristinely wrapped and carefully placed as to not fall. Her fingers grip the bag harder, the rustling of paper the only noise in the room.

Her head, though, is full of noises - full of contradictions. One half telling her to run after Killian while the other tells her the exact opposite. She presses the heels of her palms against her closed eyes, hard enough until she sees spots. She wants to stop running, God, does she ever. But Walsh was right; she’s just not cut out for this. All she does is make a mess of everything. Emma Swan doesn’t deserve to be happy.

-/-

It takes her even longer to get back to the apartment that night. She spends most of the night aimlessly driving through the streets of Boston before parking at the harbour, thumbing at the torn seat cover of her Bug and debating on shifting into third and speeding out of the state as fast as she can. She finds herself exactly where she’s found herself countless times before; for someone who keeps moving, she sure as hell feels stuck. She’d scoff at the irony if she wasn’t too busy scoffing at the broken record of a life she’s leading.

She thinks about the handful of times she’s ever felt like she belonged somewhere. She’s pushed away a number of people, including the woman who took her in and the guy who’d taken on the role her brother way before she’d even started living in his house. Emma watches the ships bob up and down on the water as her thoughts consume her. She’s only broken out of her revelry when her phone buzzes on the dashboard.

Emma expects a text from Mary Margaret, and that’s exactly what she finds. But, the contents aren’t exactly what she had in mind. Her fingers hover over the screen, eyes unable to move away from the pictures that crowd her screen. She taps one, steeling herself as she waits for it to load. It’s the group pictures from before the gala; a few of her and David, her and Mary Margaret and David, Mary Margaret and David, and then, the last one that she knew was coming, but it makes her breath catch anyway. Because she’s looking up at Killian while he looks down at her with a smile.

Mary Margaret must have taken it while they were mid conversation.

There’s a tug at her stomach. She felt like she belonged right then, but she doesn’t know if she wants to add that to the small list in her head. Because it was fleeting, and now it’s gone.

(Yeah, it’s her fault now. But in a few weeks, it would have blown up in her face anyway.)

She focuses on the crinkles at the corner of Killian’s eyes, the ones that were so different from the crinkles on his forehead when he’d walked out, seething.

Her anger, since then, has subsided into a numbness - the same one she’d felt during her first few weeks in Boston. The same one she’s felt a number of times in her life; now that list - that’s definitely longer than the other one. As she takes in the picture of her and Killian, she feels a little weight press just under her breastbone.

To anyone who didn’t know either of them, they’d look like a pair of people smitten over each other. In fact, just about everyone at the gala must have thought that. She presses her lips harder together as Killian’s words come spilling into her mind, because that kiss  _did_  make her feel something; it made her feel too much. And a part of her wishes she could handle that.

-/-

The days go by slower than usual once Emma starts putting in more hours at the centre, spending the rest of the evening in her car or at any hole-in-the-war bar she can find only going back to the apartment when she’s sure she won’t be running into Killian. It’s a difficult task considering she still has little idea about his working hours, and also considering that every afternoon, like clockwork, Ariel lets her know that someone’s dropped off lunch for her.

She doesn’t know what she expected from Killian after the way she’d completely iced him out - more anger, maybe - but it definitely wasn’t his continuous stream of lunches. He never left a note and he never stuck around long enough for her to see him. But Ariel had confirmed that it was, indeed, “the dark-haired British man” that was providing her with sustenance.

She’d debated on not eating it the first time but her hunger won out in the end.

Still, it’s a bittersweet thing every time she takes her lunch break. Over the last few weeks, she’d become accustomed to having her grilled cheese with a side of Killian’s idle chatter and flirtatious remarks, and to be suddenly enveloped in the silence was strange. Having lunch together wasn’t a routine for them, nor was it something they’d agreed on ever doing that she’d feel a loss for it, but her brain still adamantly reminded her that something was missing.

Emma’s not sure if it made her angrier, or sadder, or a terribly undesirable combination of the both.

All she knows is that there’s a variation of a sandwich, and a variation of a dessert waiting for her by the reception desk every day.

(She’d be lying if her heart doesn’t speed up during the trek to that desk every afternoon; whether in anticipation or fear, she isn’t quite sure.)

When she sits down and pries open the paper bag, she thinks about calling him. She wants to thank him, but for what? For feeding her? For honouring his side of the bet? That’s what he’s surely doing, isn’t it? Being the kind of gentleman he claims he is.

Maybe she should open with, “Hey Killian, I know I was pissed at you but that was only because I have feelings for you that I don’t want to have because I’m going to fuck it up. But, I guess I’ve fucked it up, anyway, but, yeah, thanks for lunch.”

Emma scoffs at her own train of thought, biting into her cream cheese bagel (a sandwich substitute if she’s ever seen one), opting to ignore the way her gut clenches every time she even thinks about Killian Jones. Because, fuck, she misses him in a way she didn’t think she would, and it’s only been a few days.

She ignores it all the way through the rest of her work day and then all the way through the drive back to the apartment. She trudges up the flights of stairs and reprimands herself for glancing at Killian’s front door when she reaches the floor, sliding the key that David had given her into the lock and shoving the door open with her exhausted limbs. It’s taking a toll on her, whatever these fucking feelings are, and it’s exactly why she knows she’s better off alone. (She doesn’t think about the little crack in Killian’s voice when he’d come over to the centre, tries to tell herself that he’s better off without her.)

“Oh, good, you’re home,” David says from where he’s sitting on the table. His tone is neutral enough that it puts Emma straight into high alert.

Emma hangs up her coat and turns around to take in his soft expression, as normal as always. And yet, she’s lived with and around him for long enough that she can tell something’s off. “What’s wrong?”

David furrows his brows for a second, his forehead wrinkling as he does it, but seems to recover quickly enough. He cocks his head to the side and says, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“What do you mean by that?” Emma toes off her boots and all but dumps them next to the couch.

“Do you want to sit down? Mary Margaret made tea,” he briefly looks at the kitchen where his girlfriend is standing, locking eyes with her before turning his attention back to Emma.

“No,” she replies, crossing her arms in front of her chest in a move she’s sure makes her look like a toddler, and glancing between the two of them, “not until you tell me why the hell you’re being so weird.”

“I’m not being weird, I just,” he sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair just as Mary Margaret comes to stand behind his chair, “Emma, we’re worried about you, we barely see you, it’s like you’re avoiding us.”

“Is this because I made you come to the charity gala, Emma, you know I only wanted to do what was best for you and I thought you’d enjoy yourself,” Mary Margaret chimes in.

Emma isn’t exactly sure how to react. When she’d planned it out in her mind, the only person she’d been thinking of avoiding was Killian, but now that she backtracks, she realises that she never accounted for her brother and her friend. She feels selfish in that moment, watching the both of them look at her with concern, feeling like she’s only made things worse ever since she stepped into this Goddamn state.

“No, no, it’s not anything like that,” Emma makes to move towards them but decides against it. “I’ve just been working, you know, trying to get back on track.” A pathetic lie, even by her standards, because, really, working at an unpaid job and barely acknowledging the people who are your only family doesn’t exactly sound like getting her life together. She was unemployed and hardly in contact when she was with Walsh, and she knows now how miserable she had been in that relationship.

Mary Margaret sighs and moves closer to her, “Emma, we’re your family, you can talk to us, you know that right? We used to be so close back in college, and -”

“Yeah, but this isn’t college anymore, Mary Margaret,” she replies a little more harshly than necessary. She heaves in a deep breath at her friend’s shocked expression, “Look, I’m sorry, I know you guys are just trying to help but I’m fine. I’m doing much better than I was when I got here first, and you don’t have to worry, I won’t be living on your couch forever.”

The chair screeches against the floor as David stands up, “We don’t want you to leave, Emma, that’s the last thing we could ever want. You were gone for so long, away from us and not in our lives that we often wondered if we’d ever get you back at all.” He glances at Mary Margaret when he comes to stand right in front of her. “Whatever that’s happened, that  _is_  happening, we want to be there for you.”

There’s sharp kind of pain in her chest when David says that, an old memory of when Neal had left her in that dingy motel room to fend for herself. David hadn’t run up the stairs and banged down the door with his shoulder, but he was pretty close to doing it. And he hadn’t scooped her up in his arms like he was her human shield, even though it looked exactly like what he’d wanted to do, but he’d walked with her to the car and calmed her down with his gentle voice. He’d given her space then, but he’d told her point-blank that he was nowhere close to leaving her side. It was overwhelming for her then, the orphan girl finally having someone around that cares, and it’s a bit overwhelming now, too, but only because it feels like she’s getting back a part of something she lost a long time ago.

“Things haven’t been the best between us since you came here,” Mary Margaret walks closer to the two of them, “but I want to fix that, go back to how we used to be.”

Emma squeezes her arms closer to her chest, “We can’t go back, don’t you guys get it? We can’t just pretend that it’s high school or college or that the last few years never happened. That I didn’t thoroughly fuck up my whole life and just about all the relationships I’ve had since I was a teenager. I barged into a life that I don't belong in,” she tries to keep her voice levelled but she’s sure it rises as she goes on. “I don’t expect you guys to get it -”

“You do,” David cuts her off, “you expect us to get it and you know it, too, because you came  _here_. You know we’ll understand, which is why your first thought was to call me and drive to Boston and not get in your car and keep going North till you hit Canada.”

Emma had thought about Canada after Neal, had thought about a lot of things, in fact. But had settled on David and Ruth and their little house with hardwood floors. With Walsh, it had almost been like muscle memory. Her gaze darts between Mary Margaret and David, not being able to come up with an argument.

“We can't know exactly what you're going through, with what happened in New York and,” Mary Margaret pauses to consider her words; Emma figured that she knew about Walsh - David isn't the best at keeping things from his girlfriend. “I just need you to understand that this life is yours, too. So, maybe we shouldn't try and go back, but go forward?”

There's a tinge of hope in her voice by the end of the speech, her hand on David’s arm as the two of them watch her carefully. But her words, more than anything, remind her of something Killian had said about her past not letting her define her future.

She wonders if the tenants of this apartment complex are given monologue classes after they sign their leases.

She considers the idea for a few moments and has half a mind to storm out and get into her car just to get out of dealing with their optimistic attitudes. She’s out of practice when it comes to that trait of theirs. But, Emma’s always been a fighter and even though she hasn’t believed it in a long time, there’s David and Mary Margaret and, God, Killian, who blatantly accept that she has the ability to overcome this.

Emma nods after what feels like an eternity of clenching the fabric of her shirt in her hands. Mary Margaret perks up visibly but Emma cuts her off before she has a chance to launch into another speech, “Moving forward sounds...good, but both of you need to stop holding me up on such a high pedestal. I’m kind of a wreck, and you expecting me to get a job and to just get over what Walsh did isn’t really inspiring.” She takes in a deep breath after she says it, realising how long she’s been wanting to tell them this. “If you can’t do that, or if you think it’s too much trouble then I’ll -”

“You,” David steps forwards and places both of his hands on her arms, “are not going anywhere. We want you here and I promise to be better if you promise to believe in yourself.” She nods even though she isn’t sure if she’s capable of following through. At that, he wraps her up in a comforting hug that’s soon joined by Mary Margaret’s arms around them both. A strangled kind of laugh bubbles out of her at how dramatic they’re being, and yet she can’t find it in herself to pull away.

How did she go so long without these people with her every step of the way?

Mary Margaret pulls back first with a smile that’s a little watery, “Okay, David, how about you heat up dinner for Emma?”

Her brother squeezes her once more before letting go and making the trek towards the kitchen.

Mary Margaret watches her for a few seconds before she speaks quietly, “Killian hasn’t been around much in the last few days, would you know anything about that?” She tries not to jump when she hears his name, but by the way her friend’s mouth lifts up at the corner, she thinks she’s failed terribly.

Emma shrugs lamely as a reply.

Mary Margaret hums as she walks over to the table, beckoning Emma to join her. “Just figured I’d ask because both of you started brooding at about the same time.”

“I do not brood,” Emma all but harrumphs.

“You’re doing it right now. But, I’ll let you handle it how you want to,” Mary Margaret smiles genuinely and reaches out to squeeze Emma’s hand. “Don’t shut him out, he’s a good guy, Emma.”

“I know,” is all she can say before David brings out her dinner and they’re swept up in anecdotes about work.

And she does know, how can she not? But, how much of that does she actually deserve?

Still, her friend’s words are on the forefront of her mind the entire night and the day after when, despite it being a weekend, Killian doesn’t show up for breakfast. She really shouldn’t be that surprised. What does surprise her is that, despite the new sense of ease in the conversations between her and her housemates, her eyes continue to dart to the empty fourth chair.

Emma misses her friend, but she’s certain she’s torn apart every last shred of what was between them. But then, she wasn’t sure she could ever feel like she belonged anywhere and David has continued to prove her wrong on that front. So, maybe -

She makes up her mind, as ridiculous and prone to heartache as it may be, and waits for Monday with a new sense of something she isn’t quite sure he had left in her. Maybe hope is contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou guys for your continued support of this story. It's a project that means a lot to me but my muse decided otherwise. I'm not sure when the next update will be but I'm sure it won't be four months later, heh. Drop me a comment with your thoughts?


	13. Work In Progress

Boston bustles in the pre-afternoon light, the activity seemingly as never ending as the chill that refuses to leave the air. From his place on the bench, Killian stares at the man, eyes roving over his navy blue peacoat, the mess of dark curls atop his head, the smile on his face, and the unmistakable joy gleaming in his eyes. Killian stares at Liam Jones, and Liam Jones stares right back. Even if it’s from a different time, a different place, a different feeling altogether, it hits Killian right in his chest, his fingers unintentionally curling harder around his phone.

He misses Liam something fierce, especially on days where his mind plagues him and adamantly reminds him of all the people he's lost. It's some kind of curse, Killian thinks, decided a long time ago that it's the only thing he can pin this on. Besides himself, of course. He's been imagining what Liam would tell him if he were here, something about standing tall and fighting for what he wants. Most likely a ship metaphor thrown in somewhere, he always did like those.

His eyes catch the time on the phone, and he makes to stand, back groaning in protest from being stiff too long. For all the space that Liam has occupied in his mind lately, Emma has occupied just about the same. It’s a strange sensation to him, to place someone he hasn’t known for too long right next to the man who’s been his rock even when he hasn’t been there physically. Killian isn’t opposed to it, though. He isn’t opposed to anything when it comes to Emma Swan.

(He _is_ opposed to her being opposed to whatever this is between them, but that's another discussion altogether.)

And that’s why, like a bleeding idiot, he’s been hand delivering her lunch for the last week.

He defends that he’s a man of his word, that he keeps his promises and honours his bets. He defends that he’s also something of a good liar, because even he knows that all he is is too far gone.

Robin calls him just after he places his order at the bakery, and it takes a deep breath and an internal groan before he can pick up the phone. “Afternoon, mate,” it's almost cheery and that's something.

 _“I came by your office to see if you wanted to get lunch but seems like you've already got that covered,”_ he sounds far more cheerier than Killian does. Robin’s been doing this a lot in the past week, just casually calling him or messaging him. Frankly, Killian’s a little surprised because his mate has never been one to notice his somber moods.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Locksley?”

 _“You know my love for you knows no bounds,”_ he croons, and Killian, despite himself, can't help but grin.

“Don't let the Queen Mills hear you say that, we can't have her knowing about our little affair,” he says picking up the brown bag and heading to his car.

_“It's about time the world knew, Killian, we can't keep hiding like this for much longer.”_

“Ah, but the adrenaline is in the danger of getting caught. A love with no obstacles is barely a love at all.”

 _“Too right, my darling,”_ he can hear Robin chuckle, and then he pauses before saying, _“speaking of, Regina is calling me, I'll see you soon, mate. And say hi to Emma for me.”_

The line cuts before Killian can reply, can rebuke his statement, can even comprehend how Robin knows he's going around to where Emma works in the first place. He must have mentioned something to his colleague, but his mind has hit a wall - a rather Emma shaped one - and all he's stuck on suddenly is how he can't actually tell her that Robin wishes her a greeting. He can't tell her anything because she doesn't want to see him.

It's some sort of miracle that he makes it to the youth centre in one piece with how hard he's gripping the wheel and gritting his teeth.

He greets the woman at the front desk as he always does, and she replies in kind, tacking on an unnecessary, “For Emma, right?”

Killian tries to not let it sting so much. He's always so close to her in proximity but so far from her in all the ways that he wants. And this is the last day that of the bet, which means that after this, he has no reason to walk into her place of employment and hazard a chance at seeing her. He'd caught a glimpse of her with a young lad last Friday and had to take a few minutes to calm his frantic heart.

He nods at the receptionist, darts his eyes over the interior of the place for what he assumes will be the last time before wishing her a good day and turning back towards the front door.

Emma had brought an unanticipated glimmer of life into his ridiculously boring and, frankly, quite grim day to day routine. Killian doesn't exactly remember how his time passed before his and Emma’s constant texting and occasional hang out. Doesn't exactly remember how his lips felt before she kissed them.

He knows how they feel now, though; cold and out of place. Who knew that was even possible?

He isn't paying much attention as he trudges back to his car, practically dragging his boots against the gravel of the parking lot. That's how he feels, he thinks, like he's being dragged along. Where - he isn't sure, but he doesn't feel in control of anything and he can't mistake that tugging in the place somewhere under his chest.

He isn’t paying attention, which is why he doesn’t notice her. Doesn’t even realise until he’s a few feet from his car and she clears her throat, breaking his train of thought to focus on Emma Swan leaning against his car with her expression curiously neutral.

Killian’s feet stop right where he is, and refuse to comply to his brain’s wishes to move.

(To move, to embrace, to all but fall into -)

It takes him a second to find his voice but he manages to get out a small and confused, “Swan?”

“You didn’t show up for breakfast,” comes her immediate reply. It’s almost like she’s been practicing it. Or, perhaps, practicing something else entirely and deciding to deflect last minute.

Killian would rather be having a different conversation, one about why she’s here or how much he misses her or if she’s been alright or whether or not the lunches were to her liking, but she’s in front of him and not scowling at his existence, so-

So, he’s a desperate man. He’ll take what he can get.

“I didn’t know it was a requirement to have breakfast at David’s,” he offers in a measured tone. It’s nothing like the speed of his heartbeat, which is picking up a little with every dart of his eyes across her features.

“You always have breakfast with them.” She adjusts her arms a little where they’re crossed over her chest, and he isn’t sure but he thinks she nestles a bit into herself.

It’s then that his feet get the memo, that his legs propel him forward with even steps until he’s standing only a few inches away from her. Emma’s eyes don’t leave the spot above his shoulder that she’s been staring at since he started speaking.

And Killian- well, he’s too busy following the wayward route of her curls, and how that one shorter strand swoops just under her chin.

“Emma,” he says in an attempt to make her look at him. When she doesn’t, he sighs. It isn’t heavy or dramatic like he would do if they were on friendlier terms, it’s something that dislodges itself right from under his breastbone and out into the air between them. He’s tired, truly, and all he wants is for things to be okay. Even though her eyes refuse to meet his, he goes on with his question anyway, “What are you really doing here? Because I’m certain you wouldn’t be out here, blocking me from my car, just to chastise me for missing casual breakfast.”

Her gaze flicker to hers before moving to the ground. She shrugs, but doesn’t supply anything else.

Killian ducks his head down in order to catch her eyes and when he does, it’s her that sighs. She follows it up by squeezing her eyes shut and dropping her arms down from their defensive position.

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, “I’m sorry for acting like an idiot and making you angry and fucking up this friendship, and I know the last you want to do is see me, but I had to-,”

“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” He cuts her off disbelievingly, watching as her eyes shoot open and a wrinkle forms in her brow. Which is more puzzling to him considering she's the one that shut him out, that gave him nothing but radio silence. And sure, his only way of reaching out to her was through his food deliveries, but he had to give her her space, and he had to mull over his own insecurities, too. Self-depreciation isn't the best pass time, but he knows it well enough to find a twisted kind of comfort in it. And even though he’s still a little angry at the whole situation, he’s certain he forgave her for it the second after it happened.

When Emma’s only response is a deepened frown, he continues, “Despite what you may think, you aren’t a burden on me, love. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

“I thought that-,” she pauses and breathes in and finally, _finally_ , looks at him, “that you’d be more pissed off than this.”

“Would you I rather be? I can yell if that’d make you feel a bit better, but frankly, I think it’ll scare the children,” he smirks a little, tilting his head towards the building he’d walked out from. There’s a sudden lightness in his whole body, one that only grows as he revels in the miniscule upturn of her lips.

“You didn't have to keep sending me the food. I wasn't expecting you to after I was such a bitch to you,” she winces a little as she says it. “Guess you take being a man of your word pretty seriously, huh?”

He shakes his head a little, “That did have something to do with it but it's not the real reason.” He takes a small step into her space, “I wasn't going to give up on you, Swan. If it wasn't this, I would have found another, less intrusive way to reach out. My brother taught me to fight for what I want, I suppose it took me a while to understand that not every battle is fought in the same manner.”

She stares at him in what he can only place down as quiet contemplation, the little wrinkle still present on her forehead. The silence isn't suffocating as it was when she'd refused to speak to him before, it's a gentler one that grants him the time to take in the green of her eyes again. If he missed her so much in just a week, there's no knowing how he'd feel if she decided Boston wasn't the right place for her.

He slowly brings his thumb to ghost over the worry lines above her brows, softly pressing it to her skin at the end of it. They disappear immediately, but there's still that uneasiness there that he doesn't know what to do about.

“I want it to go back to how it was before,” she says quietly, like she's afraid of admitting it. Or maybe she's afraid he won't agree to it, because perhaps she missed him just as much as he missed her.

But then, there's that issue of the fact that he has to purposefully remind his eyes not to fixate on her lips every time she speaks or purses them in thought. There's the issue of his feelings, the bloody things.

Killian sighs, and he pulls his hand back to rest at his side. “I meant what I said before, Swan. That kiss, it meant something to me,” he chances, figuring that it's best to have everything out in the open. He can't lie, not to her, anyway. “I cannot keep you around under false pretences, it's not fair,” he runs a hand through his hair. Not fair to her, and not fair to him. “I don't mean to scare you or anything of the sort, but for the longest time I didn't believe myself capable of having feelings like this, and now that I do, I don't intend to bury them.”

He expects her to recoil, to shoot up her defenses immediately at his confession. He's been mulling it around in his head for the last few days, thinking about Liam and Milah and how he's managed to even get here in the first place. It's not something he ever expected to tell Emma, especially with her icing him out like she did.

Emma doesn't disappoint, steps back just barely but it's enough for her back to meet with the car door. She startles a little, head turning back abruptly as if she forgot where she was.

Killian can see her steel herself, and it's almost painful that he would have that effect on her.

“I can't-,” she starts and then quickly amends to, “I don't feel that way about you.”

There's a waver in her voice that makes her wonder if that is the whole truth. He sighs again, losing count of how many times he's done the action during this conversation alone.

“Look,” she says after exhaling loudly, “I’m not in a place where I can be with someone. I need to work out a lot of shit right now.”

Killian nods solemnly. He presses down at the small stone on the ground with the toe of his boot, wondering if it's possible that it's gravity that's pulling his thoughts into a downward spiral. “I understand,” he blinks hard once, “but I do care for you, Emma, and I will back out of your life if you think it’s too much trouble, but I will not pretend that my infatuation towards you is gone. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to keep running from me, I’d rather have you understand what you’re in for. This is your choice, love.”

Emma’s face stays devoid of any recognizable emotion and he holds his breath. He understands that he’s basically giving her an ultimatum - for her sake more than his own; either be friends with him knowing about his intense (admittedly, frightening) attraction towards her, or tell him to get the bloody fuck out of her life. And though he’s not quite sure of what her answer will be, he can’t help but hope that it’s the former.  

-/-

Killian wakes up to a heavy weight on him, and it takes a few seconds until he registers that it isn’t gravity pulling him closer to the couch cushions he’s slumped against, but it’s Emma, with her nose pressed against his neck and her hand lying flat over his chest.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he does remember Emma knocking on his door in the evening to his surprise. She’d stood at his door without much of a greeting besides her mumbled, “I found a rental place that had the first season of _Lost_ ,” a shrug, and a wave of the boxset in her hand. Him, being the right fool for her that he is, had ushered her in just as silently, and popped the disc in his DVD player. She’d snorted at that, told him that people use laptops nowadays but his argument of watching it on a larger screen had won out once the Pilot started playing.

She hadn’t given him much of an answer back at the parking lot, mumbled enough excuses about having to go back to work that he’d taken it for the rejection she’d given him before, but it’s been days since then and now-

Now, Emma Swan is snuggling with him. So, that surely has him reconsidering his previous perception.

He supposes that he must have drifted off somewhere between the half empty bowl of popcorn and the third and fourth episode. Sleep had been the last thing on his mind with the unexpectedly easy flow of conversation between him and Emma, but the emotional exhaustion of the last few days had to catch up with him at some point.

Killian reaches for the remote next to him to lower the volume of the TV, making sure not to jostle Emma awake. Her breath fans over his skin and his plan doesn’t work out too well because soon she’s shifting with a sigh and mumbling out a sleep-heavy, “What time is it?” He freezes for a second as her lips softly brush over a spot on his neck, and is only able to stop staring at the top of her head when she hums questioningly.

“Uh, it’s-,” he provides ineloquently as he snakes his arm from behind Emma to blindly fumble for his phone on the coffee table next to the sofa. “It’s half past eight,” he says once he’s brought the phone in front of him and let his eyes adjust to the too-bright light.

Emma hums again, her forefinger tapping at his t-shirt clad chest once. “Is that your brother?” It’s the last thing he thought she’d say, but then again, that old picture of him and Liam _is_ his wallpaper (he’d been feeling particularly upset and had needed his brother’s smiling face as guidance, sue him for being a sentimental bloke).

“It is, his name was Liam,” he replies quietly, thumb absentmindedly hovering over his brother’s form. He hasn’t spoken about Liam in years, the last person he’d told the whole story to being Milah. He’d mentioned it to Mary Margaret in passing once when she’d asked him if he had plans for Thanksgiving. After that very small conversation, she’d invited him for dinner at her place, followed by invitations to Christmas, New Year’s and even Fourth of July. He hadn’t gone the first two years, but by the third Christmas, Mary Margaret had all but dragged him to David’s apartment and shoved a plate of gingerbread cookies into his hands. Still, even though he has Mary Margaret and David now, there is always a part of him that yearns for the feeling of his brother’s arm slung around his shoulder. Killian doesn’t know how it’s possible to seem like he’s a part of something, and still be apart from it.

“He passed away in a car accident,” Killian says after a pause. “The git left and bloody well took a part of me with him.”

Emma, for her part, burrows into him further, her hand fisting into his shirt. There’s some part of him that wants to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her even closer, but the larger part is just thankful that she’s here at all.

“You had really long hair,” she huffs in amusement, an attempt to lighten the mood, no doubt. The hand not resting on his chest comes to poke at his phone, at the face of his younger self in particular. His hair is, in fact, shaggy and tied up in a small ponytail.

“It wasn’t _that_ long,” he defends, “Liam despised it, thought it made me look savage.”

She shuffles beside him enough to move her head back just enough to prop her chin on his shoulder and turn to look at him. He mirrors her gesture, the close proximity not helping his desire to eliminate the distance between them.

“Tell me about him?” She wonders aloud, fingers drawing mindless patterns into his skin. It soothes him, but it doesn’t compare to the warmth in her eyes, to the knowledge that she wants to know more about him and his past.

It’s why he concedes. (Added to the fact that it’s Emma that’s asking, but semantics, and all that.) “Gods, he was a bloke; teased me mercilessly and chastised me about always having good form. He’d constantly embarrass me in front of everyone just because he could, and he had this obsession with ships, Swan, it was exhausting,” he sighs. “He was a much better man than I, strong and far too trusting,” Killian drops his head on the backrest of the couch and stares at the ceiling, “He cared for me after our mother passed, never let me believe that I was short of anything. Took me out for ice cream after I had my heart broken when I was a lad,” he chuckles. “He was everything to me and after his accident, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been the same person. I was so angry at the world that I jumped head first into any opportunity that would help me forget about it.”

He feels himself deflate at his thoughts, at the recollection of the past that he’s done such a grand job of avoiding. And yet, it’s almost freeing to speak about it. Emma’s fingers continue their caress on his skin, anchoring him to the present.

“Sometimes,” he whispers as he shuts his eyes, “I can’t remember what he sounded like. It’s the bitter feeling, like I’m not honouring his memory properly.”

He startles, opening his eyes as he feels Emma’s thumb swipe across the wetness at his cheek, unaware that he’d even been crying.

“You’re a good man, Killian Jones,” she says, making it a point to hold his gaze, “your brother would be proud of you.” He isn’t too sure he believes that, but he’s grateful for it, either way. And for that, he manages a smile - one that’s a bit wobbly but full of heart.

He inhales sharply, rubs at his face with his hand before saying, “I’m sorry, Swan, didn’t mean to get so emotional right then.”

“Thank you, for trusting me with that,” she says sitting up, Killian missing her warmth as she does so, “I’d like to hear more some other time, if you want to share.”

There’s a part of Killian that is untouched by the States and the long few years he’s been living in them. The part that knows Liam’s booming laughter and the good years he spent with Milah before it all came crashing down on him. He hasn’t let anyone see that part, not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to relive it or because it makes him more vulnerable. But as he turns towards Emma, her hair in a messy ponytail and her eyes free from the haze of sleep, he can’t help but nod.

She nods, too, smiling, and then gets off the couch, voicing her intent to make them some coffee.

He pauses the episode that neither of them were watching, and follows her to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she easily finds her way through his cupboards. It’s as the coffee machine is whirring, that she breaks the silence between them.

“I’ve been trying to get things patched up with David and Mary Margaret lately.”

Killian isn’t too aware of the details but he knows that Emma doesn’t think she fits in with them like she used to. But, she’s trying now and he can’t help the smile that crawls onto his face, “That’s wonderful, love, I’m happy to hear that.”

“Yeah,” she says, tugging her hair out of the ponytail so it cascades down her back, “it’s a work in progress but it’s nice.”

“Aye,” he replies as she pours out the coffee equally between two mugs, “I know that feeling.” He watches as Emma adds in sugar for both of them but cream only for him, and idly wonders if he’ll ever be able to convince her to give him a chance. It’s not like he’s going to push for it, anyway. No, he’s going to let the universe play its course, despite his hindrance with trusting the fates that have given him nothing but sorrow throughout his life. Because, at the end of it all, it was still those forces that brought Emma into his life.

She hands him his mug and runs a finger over the rim of her own before she speaks, “Thanks for this, Killian.” His confusion must show on his face because she adds, “For letting me in, and forgiving me for shutting you out when I was angry, and for letting me sleep on your couch, it’s so much more comfortable than David’s.”

He gives her a crooked smile and purrs, “You are always welcome on my couch, darling.” She rolls her eyes at him and he promptly sets down his mug to come stand in front of her, “I know for a fact, Swan, that I’d rather have you here yelling at me, than not have you around at all. It did sting, for certain, but it barely took a few minutes for me to forgive you for it. Call me a fool, perhaps, but,” he lifts up one shoulder in a pathetic shrug, “I can’t seem to stay mad at you.”

The thing about Emma Swan is that she never fails to surprise him. Just when he think he has her figured out, she does something that has him pulling apart the mental image of her he’s created. Something like balance herself on her sock clad tip-toes and tentatively brush her lips against his.

It’s so light and fast that he isn’t even sure it happened. Except, his eyes are closed and his lips chase after hers automatically, a strangled kind of moan escaping sounding from the back of his throat when she pulls away from him.

He blinks his eyes open, half wondering if he’s still fast asleep on his couch with _Lost_ blaring from the speakers. “Swan, what-”

“Sssh,” she hushes him, clutching the mug closer to her own chest as her eyes stay closed, “I’m thinking about why the hell I did that.”

He can’t help his huff of amused laughter at that, and she looks at him only to shoot him a glare that holds no real fire. He steps closer into her space, prying the ceramic mug from her hands and placing it on the counter behind her. “Why did you do that, then?” He asks, voice low and nose just barely nudging hers.

“I don’t know,” comes her equally husky reply.

“Do you want to try it again, just to get your thoughts going?” He’s kidding, surely, even though kissing her once more seems like the best idea to him.

But, then she inches close enough to him that her lips brush his when she says, “Maybe,” and he can’t help it as he surges forward to capture her lips with his. She inhales sharply as her arms scrabble around for purchase at his shoulders, humming as he sucks on her lower lip. When his tongue meets hers, it’s with long, languid strokes that makes him feel like he’ll melt right into her at any moment.

She pulls away with an exhale, hands fisting at his clothes again as though it’s her new hobby. He thinks his new hobby could be kissing her, if she’d allow him the honour.

“I lied,” she pants out, her eyes trained on his jaw, “I lied about not feeling anything for you. It just scares me so fucking much but I can’t help it. I’m going to ruin this, Killian, or you’re going to get tired of me, and I can’t take that chance.”

She moves to sidestep out of his arms but he only pulls her closer with his hands at her waist. His ears are ringing from her admission, and thoughts shooting in a hundred different directions until they settle on the one tangible woman with red cheeks and shallow breaths that’s pressed against his chest.

“I’m not going to get tired of you, Emma,” he mumbles disbelievingly. He pulls one hands from her waist to her chin so he can lift it up and meet her eyes, “And you are not going to ruin a thing. Along with putting some faith in me, you should put some faith in yourself, too.”

“I’ve managed to ruin every relationship I’ve ever had so far,” she says under her breath, and he isn’t sure if that was meant for him to hear or not. “Plus, I told you I can’t be with someone, not when I’m such a mess.”

“You’re not a mess, Swan.”

“For God’s sake, I’m living on my brother’s couch, Jones.”

“Desperate times.”

“Yeah, the title of my autobiography.”

He shakes his head slightly, “I know you’re afraid, I’m bloody well frightened, too. I’m not asking you to jump into a relationship with me, love. All I’m asking is for you to stop denying that there’s something here, which,” he bumps his nose with hers, “you may perhaps already have.”

She presses her own nose into the underside of his jaw as she mumbles, “Maybe.”

“And I may also be asking for a date or two.”

“Or two?” He can hear the smile in her voice, “I haven’t even agreed to one, buddy.”

“Ah, but you will. You know you can’t resist my charms, darling.”

“We’ll see.”

“Indeed,” Killian says, pressing his lips to her hair and thinking about how simple it is for him to consider a future with Emma - how simple the contemplation sounds coming from her lips - and he grins, “we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys for your excitement about this fic. Be sure to drop me your thoughts on the chapter!


	14. Racing Thoughts

She hasn’t missed much in the time she’s spent avoiding (yes, she’ll admit it) Killian, but she most definitely has missed _him_. She doesn’t think about it, though. Doesn’t find it too much of a hassle not to let her thoughts run in five hundred different directions when she’s burrowing into his couch so much that he grins, says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were attempting to become one with my furniture.”

She watches him in his place on the other couch as he works silently on his laptop, his eyes darting over to hers every once in awhile, his demeanour softening when she smiles at him.

“Enjoying the view?” He asks eventually, fixing his eyes on her.

“It’s alright,” she teases, feigning disinterest.

“You do know how to wound a man’s ego, love.”

“One of my many talents,” she shoots back. And thinks maybe she shouldn’t have by the way his eyebrow goes up in suggestion.

Right then, it’s easy to let her mind shut off and let her emotions take control, instead.

It’s easiest especially when he slides his laptop onto the coffee table and, in two long strides, is close enough to resolutely press his lips against hers. It catches her a little off guard but she smiles into the kiss nonetheless, uses her hand behind his neck to pull him closer and drag him down onto the couch. She’s always had that little voice in her head that never hesitates to kickstart her flight instincts, but when Killian sighs into the crook of her neck, that voice is nowhere to be found; dulled down instantly by the scratch of his stubble and the trailing of his lips against her skin.

But, of course, it doesn't last.

Especially not when she's stuck doing the same repetitive, filing tasks at the center. She likes this job even though it doesn't pay, it gives her a sense of purpose without keeping her anchored in one place. And as she's sorting the old records, her mind decides to get stuck on that exact thought. Because despite the fact that she didn't exactly have a plan, it still didn't involve sticking around Boston for a long time. Now, though, there's a few people (specifically a certain Englishman) that have her reconsidering that. And it scares the fuck out of her.

Getting Killian out of her mind becomes a chore too tough to tackle.

Her denial had lasted a while but not as long as she'd thought it would. She supposes being close friends with Killian first (and being able to relate to him so much as she does) might have had a hand in breaking those barriers down. A few heated kisses are one thing, her brain jumping into hyperdrive and thinking about settling down is another. She's some kind of a mess, really. One part of her wants this so badly, while the other would rather stay lonely forever than risk the chance of getting hurt again.

Emma hates psychoanalysing herself, even if half the time she's already doing it unconsciously. It adds up, in the long run. Two Psychology courses in college and suddenly everything in her life is chalked up to some form of an abandonment issue or the other. It’s all _so wonderful_.

She's only more than happy to be broken out of her (depressing) revelry when Ariel pops her head into the small room with a knock on the door.

“Emma, would it be okay if you stayed with one of the kids for a few minutes while we get her file sorted?”

They've never asked her to actually help out like this, unless you count acting as a tour guide to a few of the kids around the center. Only happy to get away from her boring work and far too active thoughts, she nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Ariel beams at her in return, “Great! Her name’s Grace, she's about six, her teacher called us up and brought her in because she thinks she's having a rough time at home.” The redhead looks at her with something like sadness in her eyes and shrugs a little, “Foster families.”

These cases aren't uncommon, and Emma knows them all too well. Has lived them.

She takes one look at the little girl with her light brown hair tied in two pigtails, and she can recognize the lost look in his eyes in an instant. The kind that tells you that she’s been abandoned. Emma’s lived that one, too.

Ariel pats her once on the shoulder before disappearing into the office. The girl sits on one of the plastic chairs that line the hallway, her fingers fidgeting with her skirt. The other parts of the building are usually brimming with energy, the volunteers getting the kids involved in as many activities and lessons as they can. The whole atmosphere is a cozy kind of thing, which is why despite their difficult times, the kids manage to let their guards down. But, this area - or maybe this specific moment - is nothing even close to lively.

Emma lowers herself onto the chair beside Grace’s. She's never been too great with kids, never really thought she'd be the kind of person who was mother material.

“Hey, kid,” Emma attempts with a smile, bending forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

Grace glances her way, only to go back to fixing her eyes on the hem of her skirt before shyly replying, “Hello.”

“What’ve you got there?” She nods to the stuffed toy of a bunny the little girl has resting in her hands.

Grace hugs the toy closer to her chest but doesn’t seem too eager to reply to the question. She’s shy and wary, and Emma isn’t the best at being delicate in these situations so instead of pressing her despite her growing empathy, she tries to change the topic.

It’s a stunted conversation to say the least, a poor exchange of “Do you like reading?” and Grace’s noncommittal “Not really” doing _wonders_. Just as Emma’s wringing her hands together in lieu of making conversation, Ariel comes back out in order to usher Grace inside the room she just exited.

Emma stays in her seat for a second before willing herself to get up. She could clearly see the barriers the little girl has up, and it hits a little too close to home. As she wanders back to the files she’d left unattended, she’s got that little girl stuck in her head right alongside Killian.

 _Great_.

-/-

It takes Emma four days to get Grace to _actually_ talk to her. It’s in the middle of her lunch break, ones she’s recently taken to spending annoying Killian via text while he’s working, that Grace sidles up to her and asks her if she can sit with her.

It’s strange for Emma, but she nods silently. The paperwork on Grace is pretty standard issue if shitty foster families are to be considered. But this was her second foster home, and she hasn’t been in the system for too long. Emma would guess deceased parents, if the well worn stuffed rabbit she carries around everywhere is anything to go by. But the last time she’d asked Ariel, the other woman wasn’t sure about it, telling her that they were still attempting to contact her foster care worker.

Emma bristles a little at the hand that the little girl’s been dealt.

Still, by some miracle, she found her way here, which is far better than Emma could ever imagine at that age.

Grace sits on the sofa in silence for a bit, swirling her spoon in the chocolate pudding she’s holding. Emma’s doing pretty much the same. They must really make an interesting picture, the two of them.

“I like it here,” Grace finally says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The girl nods. “The people are kind. When I was small, my daddy always said that you should be kind.”

It’s the first mention she’s heard of this girl’s parents and her curiosity piques. She knows it isn’t exactly her place to be asking - hell, they’ve got degree holding specialised social workers for that - but she’s always been stubborn. “Your dad seemed like a smart guy.”

“He is.”

A wave of sadness hits her in that moment. It isn’t so much the present tense as it is the lingering longing in her voice that gets to Emma. But she doesn’t know how to approach this without being brash and direct, and the little girl in front of her isn’t a perp she needs to nab, which makes it all the harder.

Emma’s saved from attempting to come up with a pleasant way to ask when Grace speaks up again, “He got lost, you know?” Grace looks at her, then. “But he’ll come back.” She remembers being that age all too well, remembers hoping and wishing that one day there’d be a knock on the door of the group home and it’d be her birth parents, come to take her back. To a house with big windows and a room just for her.

The need to screw her eyes shut is one she fights off with great difficulty. She’s over that time of her life, has grown a lot since then. But some wounds are harder to heal than others.

Emma isn’t one to distribute false hope so instead of reaffirming the little girl’s statement, she simply smiles at her, and makes a mental note to get Ariel on this immediately. Grace may not know what actually happened to her father, but there’s clearly more to it than some kind of tragic death.

It’s in a brief moment between Grace’s solemn expression and the smile she returns back that Emma finds herself wondering which is worse; to not know your parents at all, or to know them and then lose them.

-/-

David drags her out for curtain shopping on his day off, grumbles something about how if he has to suffer through this, then she does, too. Logically, it makes no sense. Logically, Mary Margaret probably shouldn't have tasked him to pick out a new set without her being there.

The man’s college dorm room was a complete mismatch of colours, and even now, the coordination in the apartment isn't the best. Which is probably why Mary Margaret wants new, colour appropriate, curtains.

David steps into the store with a scrunch of his nose, and a clear distaste for the task at hand. This was going to be amusing. And most definitely a mess.

“My bedroom is mainly beige?” Her brother’s statement to the shop assistant sounds more like a question that the woman would definitely not know the answer to. The lady sighs as though she's had to deal with clueless customers for most of her career, and tells him to wait while she finds a pattern catalogue.

Emma smirks at the expression on David’s face, somewhere in the middle of annoyed and confused. At least she isn't the only one dealing with some kind of torn thoughts. Having her headspace divided into two equally piercing contemplations is a pain in the ass.

“Mom called the other day.” The way he drops the sentence makes her feels like she's walked into the middle of a conversation. He must sense it, too, because he winces a little before continuing. “She was asking about you.”

She hasn't spoken to Ruth in nearly as long as she hadn't spoken to David. Sometimes she sends her (technically) mother an email and on the rare occasion, she'll even give her a call. But none of it is substantial. If you sat through their conversations, there would be very little indication to the fact that the woman took her in when she most certainly didn't need to. Ruth always carries a heavy dose of affection in her voice, and Emma’s always attempted to show her just how grateful she is. It's the circumstance of the situation she's wedged herself into, though, that has caused her to lose so much time with a woman she loves dearly.

“Yeah?” Emma rubs the end of a show curtain in between her thumb and forefinger in order to keep her hands from fidgeting.

David nods, and then with a fond smile says, “She told me to keep you from consuming too much unhealthy food, but I reminded her how unlikely that would be considering how stubborn you are.”

Emma can’t help but roll her eyes good naturedly at Ruth’s concern, silently welcoming the wave of nostalgia that rushes through her at the way her mother used to fret over her about her eating habits.

(Come to think of it, she’s got a lot of people on her case about that. She half expects Killian to bat her hand away from a plate of onion rings next, yet somehow, she knows he wouldn’t; which is a problem in itself if she reflects on it too much.)

“I’m not _that_ stubborn,” she refutes.

He only shoots her an unimpressed look to make his point.

Emma waits a few beats and then asks, “Does she still live in the old house?”

“Yeah, she turned my room into a storage room for her gardening supplies the last time I went over.” David makes a noise of discontentment. “You’d think I’d be okay with that considering I have my own place but there are rakes in my room, Emma.”

“It’s probably an improvement.”

“ _Probably an improvement_ ,” David murmurs under his breath with a mocking tone. It’s moments like these that she can’t believe she ever thought it was a good idea to leave his side.

The assistant finally returns with the catalogue, handing it over and telling them she’ll be close by if they have any questions. There’s a shit ton of colours and materials, and Emma thinks her brother is probably going to tear his hair out by how hard he runs his hand through it.

David stares at the catalogue, which is more of a binder, and leads her to a few chairs in the corner. Clearly he expects they’re going to be here for a while. He opens it to the first page and sighs heavily as though he’s given up before he’s even started. Boston’s finest, ladies and gentlemen.

In the few seconds that it takes for the silence to wash over them, her musings come streaming back to the forefront of her mind. And it takes her a few moments of contemplation before she decides to unload onto David, since she knows she would only regret not doing it later. She’s only just been reminded of how big of a role he plays in her life, and it would be stupid of her to ignore that once more. She won’t tell him _everything_ , of course. Her brother isn’t exactly the person she’s going to go to for boy advice. Especially considering, she still hasn’t divulged the details of her and Killian’s sort-of-together-but-not-exactly unlabelled status to anyone yet.

So, she picks up the other issue at hand. “Speaking of parents,” she starts, and David quickly looks up at her from the binder in his hands, obviously grateful for a distraction. “There’s this little girl at the center who was brought in because she was having trouble with her foster family.”

Emma’s gaze falters to her hands as she talks, but she notices her brother sit up straighter and she knows he’s turning his full attention towards her. “Are you alright?” he asks gently. She knows his concern is because of her own experiences, ones he knows all too well from nights during summer spent sharing beers and divulging secrets under blanket forts they’d set up in her room when they couldn’t sleep.

She nods. “Yeah,” she adds for good measure. “It’s not that that’s bothering me. Her dad, well, her birth dad, is missing. Ariel, this woman I work with, she called me last night after I asked her for more information, and the guy has nothing about him anywhere from a few months before his daughter was shifted into the system.”

Emma pinches her brows together at the thought of it; it’s been eating at her for hours.

“And you want to find him,” comes David’s reply. It’s not a question, but more of a continuation of her thoughts.

She looks at him, then. “Is it stupid?”

He shakes his head, a smile creeping on to his face, “Not at all. You did this for a living, remember? You’re good at this.”

“I don’t know if it’s my place, it’s not like anyone’s _asked_ me to do it.”

“Do you think it’s the right call?” David prods, genuine curiosity lacing his tone. He’d told her once to always trust her gut, that her instincts were her best friend at times like these. When she says yes, he grins wider. “Then you have to do it. And if you need any help, I can always run him through the system at work,” he adds the last bit with a nonchalant shrug.

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Is it?” He winks.

Emma shakes her head at his idiocy. “Come on,” she nudges his shoulder with her own, “you’ve got curtains to pick.”

His answering groan and face plant into the binder is met with her laughter.

-/-

This city is a fucking joke.

Emma decides that on her trek from her car parked down the street to the apartment building. She decides that as her now muddy boots trudge against the ridiculous mixture of rain and snow, the latter falling with increased speed by the minute.

Snowfall in April. Yeah, Spring, her ass.

She curses up a storm as she makes her way up the stairwell, hands freezing and hair a mess of tangled curls. What she needs right now is a hot shower and a large sweater and not to be drenched in dirt ridden water. Perhaps she’s being a little overdramatic by the way she stomps her boots on the floor outside the apartment door, but she’s spent her whole day with her thoughts leaving her frustrated and restless. It isn’t enough that seeing Grace makes her gut clench a little, it also reminds her that she’s at a complete loss when it comes to searching for her dad. She feels like she’s back at square one.

Her mind wanders too far, too often. To Killian. To Grace. To Grace’s ghost of a dad that she’d tried to Google relentlessly. To her own parents, who she could never find no matter how hard she’d tried.  

She’s about to clamber out of her jacket when she sees Mary Margaret walk into the living room in an off shoulder red dress that is clearly made for colder weather. The heels she has on, though, are clearly not going to cut it if it keeps coming down the way it is.

“Are you heading out?” Emma asks, peeling the jacket off and reveling in the warmth of the apartment.

Mary Margaret hums, “David and I are heading to this rooftop restaurant that just opened up.”

She’s beaming with happiness and Emma would really hate to ruin her mood, but. “You know it’s snowing outside, right?” It’s almost as if Mary Margaret’s face falls in slow motion, words registering as she slowly turns her gaze to the window. When she makes her way over and pulls back the curtain, it’s with a noise of resentment.

“David,” Mary Margaret hollers loud enough for her voice to reach the bedroom, “it’s snowing.” It should be a piece of evidence in how perfect they are for each other when she hears David make the same noise she heard her friend make a few seconds ago. “Guess we’ll just reschedule,” she says quietly, more to herself than anyone. She turns back to Emma then, “What would you like for dinner?”

“You know what, no,” she says resolutely, making her way to hurriedly pick out a few articles of clothing from her suitcase and reaching for her laptop, “this stupid snowstorm might have pissed me off, but I won’t let it ruin your date night. You guys have fun here, I’ll just head over to Killian’s, or something.” She says the last bit without much thought, and it’s only when Mary Margaret smirks at her that she realises what it sounds like. “Shut up.”

But her friend’s expression sobers up almost immediately, “Emma, you don’t have to do that. The fact that you went with David to pick out curtains was nice enough, which, thank you, by the way. I'm sure he would've brought home green ones if it weren't for you.”

“I'm still here, you know,” David bellows from the bedroom.

Emma shakes her head with a smile, and is halfway to the door already. “Let me do this for you,” she says before pulling the door open. “And don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere to sleep. I really do _not_ want a repeat performance of what happened when I walked into my dorm room that one Halloween.” At least Mary Margaret has the decency to look sheepish at that.

It’s only when Emma’s out in the hallway that she realises Killian might not even be home, she hasn’t had the time (or the mental capacity) to check in with him today. She tries the handle anyway, finds it open and lets out a soft cheer. He’s standing in the kitchen, and he whirls around at her entrance, a grin lighting up his face instantly. It’s almost like the moment she’s in his presence, all those stupid notions of believing this is _too much_ turn into just that - stupid notions.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“David and Mary Margaret have a date,” Emma says by way of explanation. She takes off her boots and puts her laptop down on the table next to the door. “Can I crash here for the night?” Sure, she’s slept here before, but it’s never been when they were...whatever they are right now. Which is why her question comes off a little hesitant.

“Of course, love.” He makes his way to her, easily resting his hands on her waist. “I was just making dinner. Why don’t you freshen up, hm?” He punctuates the question with brush of his fingers against her shoulder, shaking off the wetness from his hands after.

“You won’t mind if I use your hot water?”

He presses closer, his lips hovering over her ear as he says, “Would you rather I warm you up, instead?” He chuckles when she shoves his chest, letting her step out of his embrace to head towards the bathroom.

She feels marginally better after her shower. Or, perhaps, it’s just Killian that makes her feel that way. She pulls on her sweatpants and tanktop, realising she forgot to grab a sweater. It’s an easy remedy as she slips into Killian’s bedroom while towel drying her hair, slipping on the first sweater she finds in the drawer (she’s seen him wear it before; a soft navy blue one that's big on her, sleeves hitting just above her fingertips).

Emma knows she has to figure out a way to find Grace’s father, one Jefferson Hatter. She’s only managed to pull up a few articles on him that have been of no help, and she thinks if it weren’t for the risk of David losing his job, she’d probably get him to help her out. Not that he’d care about the risk anyway, if it meant helping her. Which is probably why she hasn’t taken him up on his initial offer.

What she needs is to keep working at it, and sooner or later she’ll find him. She’s already sent out a few emails to the contacts she has. What was it David said? She’s got to put some faith in herself - no matter how ridiculously cliche that sounds to her own ears. Still, she hates having to wait around for something to happen, it only fuels the uneasiness she’s been harbouring for the past few days.    

“Swan, alright in there? Is there anything I can get you?” Killian’s voice floats in through the slightly ajar door.

“Nope.” Emma reaches out to pull it open all the way. Killian smiles at her for a second before the expression changes into something else she can’t quite read, his eyes glued on the sweater she pilfered. “I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed one of your sw-”

He cuts her off with a hard kiss, surging forward and pulling her even closer with one arm around her waist and a hand buried in her wet hair. Everything on her mind slips away, falls onto the floor with a muted thump along with the towel she was holding. And the only thing that she's scrambling to hold on to is him, her hands unable to decide where they want to rest, running over his chest and through his hair and down his back.

She barely notices when she shifts them so her back is pressed up against the wall to her side. It's almost like their first kiss; heady and fierce. But, Killian’s hand rubs small circles on the base of her neck even as he tilts her head to grant him more access. It makes it more affectionate, somehow.

Her breath comes out shallow and practically panting when he slides his mouth down to the underside of her jaw. She can't help the quiet moan that she lets out as he trails lower, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses till he hits the collar of her (his) sweater.

He stops, then. Rests his forehead in the crook between her neck and shoulder, his chest heaving up and down as he tries to control his breathing. She feels the pleasurable burn of his scruff on her skin and finds herself wishing that it’d last for a few days at least. Her hands are resting in his hair, and once she finally shakes herself out of it, she softly tugs on it.

“What was that for?” Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, way too raspy to be hers.

“Apologies.” She basks a bit in how his is no better, may even be worse. His hand still at her waist slides to the small of her back, bunching up the fabric of the sweater before releasing it. “This looks stunning on you.”

The thing between them is tentative and by her standards, unexpected. And he’s been following her cue, letting her hold the reins despite the fact that she has no fucking clue what she’s doing. But, she does know this: she _likes_ him. And because of that, finds a spark of joy zip through her at the thought of Killian losing himself just because she has one of his sweaters on.

Emma’s huff of laughter turns into a gasp when his teeth graze her skin. He pulls his head off her shoulder, all the while watching her with hooded eyes. She’s suddenly caught thinking about him warming her up, like he’d suggested earlier. By the smirk he sports, she thinks he might just be reading her mind. He watches her for  few careful moments, their bodies still flushed together, breathing slowly coming down from its ragged state.  

“You should keep it,” he murmurs, lips hovering over hers.

She closes the distance with a sweet kiss that lasts long enough for her to card her fingers through his soft hair once more. She likes it messy, she decides. Doesn’t know when it became her decision, but doesn’t really care in this moment. He kisses her, and it’s _easy_.

( _You should keep him_ , comes the little voice from the back of her mind. It sounds suspiciously like Ruby’s, and she pushes it even further back, to deal with some other time.)

She pulls back enough to survey his swollen lips and the lopsided grin he’s sporting. “Not that this isn’t great, but what's for dinner?”

He laughs heartily, releasing her to twine their fingers together and tug her towards the kitchen.

She may not know what they are but she knows that she likes having Killian around, likes that he smiles at her the way he does, likes the way he kisses her and tilts his head a little to the side when he’s considering something. She likes _him_. (Even if she freaks out about it when she’s left unattended.)

She likes him and she has to refrain herself from reaching over the couch to kiss him every time he smiles at her over his spaghetti, his eyes glinting as he talks about the ship he’s working on right now. _God_ , when did she turn into such a sap?

Her eyelids droop a little once she’s done with dinner and he notices. “Long day? You seem a bit tired.”

Emma would tell him about Grace and Jefferson and all the mindless research she’s been doing, but she likes the quiet of this moment, doesn’t want to taint it with talk that’s only going to annoy her. She’ll tell him later, when it’s easier to wrap her mind around it, too. Plus, Killian finds the smallest of ways to keep touching the collar or the sleeves of the sweater she has on, and she can’t help but want to be alert to catalogue it all.

“Long week,” she supplies, nestling into his side.

“Then I insist you take the bed.”

She shakes her head, “No, I can take the couch, I live on one anyway. And yours-”

“Is more comfortable than David’s, aye, you’ve mentioned that before.” He tilts his head to look down at her. “Which is why I wouldn’t mind taking it.”

Emma huffs. “Killian, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shoots back. “Please, Swan, I would sleep better if I knew you’d be more comfortable. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t slept in it before,” he teases. She wonders if this is how David feels when dealing with her stubbornness.

She concedes, eventually, once he threatens to pick her up and dump her on the bed himself. She’d offer sharing his too large bed, but - well, she's not really there yet. He walks her to his bedroom door, the gentleman that he claims he is, and sways a little into her space as they both stand there.

“Good first date, I’d wager.” His dimples flash, and she unconsciously leans closer to him, too.

“Oh?” She brings up her hand to press at where his skin dents in his cheeks. It only makes him grin wider. “Is that what this was?”

“Well, I cooked dinner and we spent the better half of the evening conversing with you tucked into my side. Not to mention, you are wearing my sweater.” His eyes are once more drawn back to the navy blue fabric, following the curve of the round neck, before they meet hers again. “By some accords, though, this might just be our,” he pauses for a second and narrows his eyes a little, “fourth date.”

“You're just trying to make yourself seem smoother than you are.” Her hand finds its way to his ear, gently tugging at the pointed tip of it that's gone red. That's another thing she prides in, that her teasing actually makes him blush.

She yawns then, and he smiles at her with a contented hum.

“Sweet dreams, Emma,” he practically whispers, leaning closer to brush his lips over the apple of her cheek.

“Good night, Killian.” She watches walk down the hall, glance at her once before turning the corner for the couch.

Sleep comes easily for her, wrapped in the warm duvet and Killian’s lingering scent. She's sure she's still smiling when she drifts off, sucked into a deep, dreamless slumber. It isn't until the telltale chime from her phone sounds that she wakes up, her eyes almost immediately adjusting to the email notification lighting up the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me forever to get this right, for some reason. Had to rewrite so much of it so many times but here it finally is. I might break my system and continue the next part in Emma's POV, but let's see where the muse takes me.  
> As always, I'm forever grateful to your feedback and kudos's and bookmarks. Drop me a comment with your thoughts on this chapter?


	15. As We May Bruise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it’s been way too long. I love you all for sticking by me and leaving comments and still following through my terribly long hiatus on this fic. And even more thanks to those that nominated this fic for the CS Fanfic Awards, I screamed when I saw it, you guys are the best. (I’m just going to leave the voting link [right here](http://csfanficawards.tumblr.com/csfa2016wip-50) if you're so inclined.)
> 
> But anyway, this chapter could be considered a second part to the last one because it picks up immediately after. And a few artistic liberties have been taken in regards to the needling of information via software since I know little to nothing about that. But I did do my research, and I hope it doesn’t come off as too far fetched of a concept. Leave me your thoughts!

She stays put on the bed for as long as she can, fighting a hard battle to keep her eyes open against the harsh light of her laptop.

She's scraping together pieces of information that could possibly be considered lead-worthy, thanks to the attachments in the email that redirected her to a few buried reports about Jefferson before he disappeared. She’d sent a silent blessing to August for the information, his shady friends in highly low places finally coming through for once in their lives.

Emma doesn't know if it's legal that she's clicking through the financial information of a man whose daughter she sees a few times a week. Emma, frankly, doesn't give a damn.

Despite the unreliability of the source, it's still something. A jumping off point. And she's caught more with less to go on, so factoring in the fact that she could have not heard from anyone at all and be stuck goading Grace for some kind of clue, it could be a lot worse.

She cranes back her neck to loosen the crick in it for what she's sure is the sixth time in the last two minutes and that's when she sighs. She's loathe to leave the room, the comfortable mattress, the smell she identifies with Killian wafting in and out of her senses. But the need for coffee wins out.

She makes sure to turn the brightness and volume of the laptop down before taking it out into the kitchen as she waits for a few webpages to load. She glances over at Killian, curled up on the sofa under a beige blanket, his breathing even. She doesn't bother fighting the smile that forms.

Even though she takes extra caution, the purring of the coffee maker rouses him, and Emma curses under her breath when he mumbles her name and sits up in confusion.

“Is everything alright?” She's seen Killian in his sleep-rumpled state before, but she still isn't prepared for the way her stomach jumps at the roughness of his voice, the prominence of his accent.

“Yeah,” she breathes out, “yeah, sorry, go back to sleep.”

Killian Jones, stubborn idiot, pushes himself up off the couch with a sigh, and manages not to stumble over any of his furniture on the way to the kitchen. His eyes are still half closed by the time he gets to her.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, expression soft.

“Morning.” She pushes a strand of his hair back from where it's fallen in front of his forehead and he hums.

“Care to explain why you're awake?”

Her eyes dart to her laptop, and then the coffee maker clicks with completion. She uses the excuse to slip away from his attentive gaze (how he manages that even when he's half awake, she doesn't know) and reach for the mug in his lower shelf. His kitchen is easy to navigate around, and she hasn’t missed how devoid of personal touches it is - his fridge door bare in comparison to David’s, which is littered with photos and lists and reminders. Still, she likes the way he organises his spices alphabetically and keeps his teabags well stocked.

She stirs sugar into her coffee and sidesteps him to stand in front of her laptop.

“Swan?” he mumbles. His hands come up to rest on her waist loosely and he props his chin on her shoulder.

Emma places the mug down on the breakfast bar. “I'm looking for someone.” Despite David’s assurances, some part of her knows the whole idea is kind of ridiculous. She isn't involved in any of this; she could very well make all of it worse. But Killian in comforting, in the way he inches her (well, his) sweater high enough to draw small, lazy, circles above her hipbone with his thumbs. “He's- uh- his daughter is at the centre.”

He nods. “And how did the lass end up under your care?”

“Foster family didn't work out.” She presses herself into his chest unconsciously. “And her dad kind of vanished off the face of the earth.”

“He did?”

Emma hums distractedly, eyes intent on scanning over the last of Jefferson’s credit card transactions she’d pulled up. Which is why she misses Killian’s tense tone, only notices him stepping away when his hands fall from around her waist.

“Hey, is everything okay?” She crosses her arms as she faces him in an attempt to replace his warmth.

“Are you sure it’s a wise idea to look for this man?” He scratches the back of his neck, eyes trained on the computer screen. When he looks back at her, they’re hazy; somehow she can tell he’s stuck somewhere between the past and the present. “I don’t mean to discourage you,” he adds hastily, “it’s only that some people are better off not being in our lives.”

The past, she knows, has one bitch of a chokehold. And a surefire way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. 

“I get that,” she sighs, reaching out to curl her fingers around his, “but if I don’t try, I’ll never know.” When he doesn’t reply, she squeezes his hand to get his attention. “It’s a gut thing, and I think I’m going to trust my instinct on this one.” Instinct, and a little bit of evidence that indicates he spent what little earnings he did have on his daughter, according to his expenditures on paper.

It takes him a moment before he nods, the fog clearing up slightly. “I suppose not all fathers are terrible,” he says with a casual shrug, but the tenseness in his jaw betrays him.

She reaches for his other hand then. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up so early to dredge up shitty memories,” she winces. Killian lets a small smile grace his lips and it eases the tightness in the air.

“I suppose you didn’t mean to wake me up at all.” He runs his thumbs along the backs of her hands. “It isn’t your fault, Swan. I’ve dealt with these demons long before I met you, it’s nothing new.”

The words are a reminder. As far as she knows, he doesn’t have much left in the name of blood family. It's not something that sits well with her - the fact that he's been so alone for such a long stretch of time, no one around that could recount what he was like as a kid. No one to embarrass him with stories from his awkward teen years, or fuss over his achievements with pride.

In that second, more than ever, Emma feels her affection for him surge. Her toes curl against the cold tile.

“Is this what you did before you left New York?” He moves closer to the laptop, peering at the screen while successfully drawing the conversation away from harder subjects.

She shakes herself out of it. “Yeah, I guess. There was a lot of research and even more late night stakeouts in that job.” She thinks of the amount of caffeine she'd consume, how the backseat of her car would look like a dump of takeout containers and burger wrappers. She'd liked doing what she did. She was good at it, too.

“Sometimes I had to run behind some jackass while wearing heels and a dress,” she adds, and is rewarded with a chuckle from Killian.

“That's a wonderful visual.”

She shoves him playfully in the shoulder before sliding on to the stool. He sits down beside her, rubbing at his eyes. Emma starts to tell him about the fake dates she’d set up with perps, how so often it would come down to relying on a profile off of a dating site to pick the perfect moment to handcuff bail jumpers. She mentions the other times, too, the ones where she’d track them down to bars, dingy motel rooms, or their favourite hot dog stands, the falls she’d take on the sidewalk, the punches she’d get in every now and then, the exhilaration of it all when she’d hand them in and swipe up her payment.

“Do you miss it?”

Emma shrugs, opting to scroll down the screen even though she isn’t quite sure what she’s looking for. “Sometimes.” She’d gotten into it about a year and a half after college, and it stuck with her. She isn't sure if its sadness she feels over losing a part of herself, or anger at Walsh and at herself, for letting her lose it.

Killian doesn't say anything but after a moment, he brings a hand up to run slow circles at the back of her neck, fingers applying gentle pressure. She realises then that her shoulders have tensed up, and she drops them with an exhale. The unwelcome thoughts of Walsh bother her, but she knows to not waste her time on that when there are more pressing matters to be dealt with.

Pressing matters like Killian pressing his fingers into her skin.

Killian, who she knows little about to be kind-of-going-out with him. Unlike her, though, he's more forthright with his thoughts and feelings, and she knows that he'll tell her whatever she wants to know. She only needs to ask.

And she could ask of his father, or more of his brother. Or ask why he left England in the first place. Or-

“Killian?”

“Hm?” His hand moves to play with the strands of her hair in a movement that's become quickly familiar to her.

Or she could start smaller, the sum of the parts that make him up.

“What's your favourite colour?”

Killian chuckles and regards her with a bemused expression like that was the last thing he was expecting her to say. “Sea green.” He nods at her. “And yours?”

“Yellow.”

He tugs at a curl. “I think I may be a bit partial to that myself.”

She scoffs at the cheesiness, her heart beating a thunderous rhythm in her chest because apparently she will never get properly used to his flirting.

He steals a sip of her coffee and asks her, with genuine curiosity, what she’s doing now. So, she points out her attempt at looking through his purchases, his credit card transactions and his cost of living broken down by month. He listens intently, inching closer to get a better look at the screen.

“Rather impressive research, love. I have no doubt you’ll be able to find the man.”

“We’ll see,” she says on a sigh, running a hand through her hair. And then, “You can take the bed if you want, I don't know how long this will take me.”

Killian hums, but doesn't go anywhere except to wash his face and brush his teeth. He drags his own laptop to sit beside her, leaving a lingering kiss on her lips before leaving the both of them to work on their own. When the sun comes up, he promptly gets up to make them breakfast, insisting she take a break to eat.

“You need your strength to save the day, Swan,” he says with a grin.

She rolls her eyes, but accepts the break and the kiss he offers her, all the while wondering what she did to deserve him.

-/-

There's a stain on the dark beige carpet, and more cracks in the ceiling of the living room than she could follow with her eyes in one attempt. Emma leans forward, the old couch protesting under her weight, and fixes the woman sitting opposite her with a pointed glare.

After waiting around for what felt like forever, but was only a few days, Emma couldn't handle it anymore. She was never one to sit around twiddling her thumbs. When she wanted shit done, she got shit done. And since August and his exhaustive list of contacts wasn't getting very far, she knew it was time to get her hands dirty. Emma glances at the grimy surface of the coffee table to her left. Maybe literally.

She'd pulled a few files out on Grace Hatter during her volunteer shift and promptly found herself on the doorstep of her last foster home. The one that she was pulled out of because of the care she was being given. Or, lack thereof.

Miss Faustina - or _Madame_ , as she insists on being titled (seriously, this system is full of nutjobs) - cross her legs and smiles in a way that toes the line between calm and disturbing. Emma had read the file; Faustina Simmons, late 30’s, blue collar job that clearly didn't pay for her flat screen and the rings of real silver on her fingers.

“There's nothing more I can tell you,” Faustina says.

“Really? Because I think the fact that you were using a little girl to earn money that you kept for yourself would mean you had something to tell me.” Emma knows foster houses like these, she's been in them before. And she reminds herself to thank whatever kind of power is looking out for Grace to have pulled her out of it.

Faustina pushes her long red hair back over her shoulders. “That little girl didn't like being here,” she insists, a forced calmness in her voice.

“Any much as you liked having her.”

“I don't know what you're trying to say.”

Emma, despite herself, rolls her eyes. Honestly, nutjobs. “Look, lady, you're gonna get what's coming to you but that's not what I'm here for. I need to know if you know anything about Grace’s family.” Faustina opens her mouth but Emma cuts her off with a lowered tone, “And I’ll let you in on a little secret, I can tell when someone’s lying to me.”

In the minutes that follow, she stares at the woman cloaked in jewelry and surrounded by possessions. Faustina looks like she wants to say something a few times, but stops herself. Emma waits, even though all she really wants to do is knock over a few pricey looking lamps and rummage through her drawers and emails. 

“Lady,” Faustina finally says with an exasperated huff, “I don’t know what you want. That girl is an orphan, if you want her parents go pull up her birth certificate.”

“All I need to know is if you’ve ever heard her talk about her family, or if anyone’s tried to contact you about her.” The second the words leave Emma’s mouth, Faustina’s eyes widen a fraction. She would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been looking for a sign of dishonesty. It takes everything in her not to jump up and get in her face. Emma watches her for a beat, and then, “You know something, don’t you?”

Surprisingly, the woman relents, a sigh escaping her lips. Emma doesn’t know what it is that’s tired her out, but she’s glad for it. “There was a letter once, a few months ago. It had no address or anything, just a note inside that said ‘For Grace’.”

Emma’s brows furrow. “What was in it?”

“Money,” Faustina says with a shrug. Money, which Emma has no doubt, was spent on everything other than Grace.

“Do you still have the letter?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Really? You’re being investigated for child neglect and you’re asking me for a bribe? If you want to give the state more reasons to root against you, then be my guest.” Her words must hit, because in a matter of seconds, Faustina’s getting up and opening and closing drawers until there’s a white envelope being shoved into Emma’s hands.

She runs her thumb over the faded stamp at the corner and promptly turns and sees herself out, silently priding herself for not decking the woman across her face. 

-/-

Staring, Emma knows, is never appropriate. Most of the time it's just plain creepy.

But there's just something about the scene in front of her. Something about Killian Jones in his black leather jacket, sitting cross legged on the floor, and hunching over a book, with Grace Hatter narrating it by his side; it has her frozen in place. The stuffed bunny sits between them and it’s all just so _domestic_.

David had dropped her off in the morning after she’d found her tires blocked in because of the snow. She’d been debating her options, crouched next to her Bug, when David had spotted her and coerced her into his _very_ warm pickup, while holding up a thermos of coffee.

He really did know her weak spots.

She hadn’t actually thought far enough to wonder how she’d get back, but her answer came in the form of a phone call from Mary Margaret, asking if she was free for drinks in the evening and that Killian would be happy to pick her up considering it was on his way anyway. Emma hadn’t even had a chance to get in a word edgewise, had only gotten an enthusiastic, “See you!” before the call had ended.

Apparently she was going for drinks, and Killian was the one taking her.

From personal experience, Emma knows that spending extended time with Mary Margaret is giving her an open invitation to meddle with your life. Staring at her phone after the call, she was abruptly thrown back to sophomore year when Mary Margaret had shoved her into a bathroom with Paul Castello at a dorm party, and she'd had to awkwardly explain to the poor guy that she wasn't interested.

Subtlety was not a trait Mary Margaret thrived on.

Not long after, she'd gotten a text from Killian asking if she was alright with him driving her. It wouldn't be the first time in a car with him, but something made her hesitate for a second, her thumbs hovering over her phone. She wasn't good at these things, was even worse when she was metaphorically being pushed into a bathroom.

But she took a deep breath and let herself think of the feeling of his sweater on her, his arms around her, the way he'd watched her heavy-lidded and smiling softly a few nights ago. She'd typed out _Pick me up in two hours?_ before she could second guess herself.

Being the gentleman he claimed to be, he’d shown up five minutes early, and she’d had to shoo him away to the library while she finished her work and gathered her things. Which is where she finds herself now, lingering in the doorway like she's planning a kidnapping.

Definitely creepy.

She clears her throat and his eyes immediately lift up to catch hers.

“Emma!” Grace says enthusiastically. The smile that forms on Emma’s face is automatic. In the days she's been here, Grace has grown on her like she didn't think was possible.  Since the centre doubles as temporary shelter in cases of need, Emma sees Grace whenever she’s volunteering, provided the little girl doesn’t have school.

Emma knows all about her love for rabbits, how she wants to grow up to be a vet, her excitement when it comes to reading, her fondness for drinking tea, and her inability to braid hair.

(Emma had attempted to teach her how afterwards, and a few days later had seen her trying it out on a younger girl during their lunch.)

Attachment, Emma is coming to find, is something she can't avoid no matter how hard she tries. Grace is Exhibit A, in all her pigtailed, adorable, glory.

“Hi, Grace,” she smiles, “what are you up to?”

“We’re reading _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , it’s one of Killian’s favourites,” she replies with a nod. When she says his name, she elongates the ‘l’’s, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, like she’s having trouble with it, and Emma feels her smile grow wider.

“Is it, really?” She glances at Killian and he shrugs, his own smile a little goofy. He is most definitely Exhibit B.

“Yep,” Grace says, pulling the bunny into her lap. Emma had found out his name was Mr. Rabbit. “My daddy likes this book, too. It has his name in it and everything.”

Emma leans closer to see where exactly Grace is pointing on the page. It was at an illustration of the Mad Hatter, and she makes the connection with their last names. It’s sweet, she thinks, to be able to dive into a world of fantasy like that; to tell yourself that if you related to the characters hard enough, that maybe you could get a happy ending, too.

“Well,” Killian says, “he may be the Hatter, but you sure are far prettier than any Alice.”

Grace grins widely, and Emma is more than grateful for Killian’s deflection skills. He gets up, telling her he has to go, has to “take a Princess out for a feast before our time expires and the car turns back into a pumpkin.” He winks at the little girl and her pout turns into a giggle.

“See you,” Grace calls out with a wave to the both of them as they exit the room, Killian’s hand leading her out as it hovers over the small of her back.

She must still be staring when he starts his car because he turns to her with a raised eyebrow and forming smirk. “Care to share your thoughts? Or does your act of admiring beauty require silence?”

She shoves his shoulder in retaliation. He pulls out of the parking and she mulls over her thoughts for a few quiet moments before speaking up. “Just didn’t think you’d have a soft spot for kids.”

He glances at her for a brief moment before looking back at the road. “I must be a man of many surprises, then.”

She hums. “So, _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , huh?” she asks, trying hard not to stare at his profile.

“I prefer _Peter Pan_ ,” he replies, “as I know you do if your inclination towards a certain pirate is any clue.”

She feels the heat on her cheeks, reminded of a time that feels like forever ago; getting drunk and waking up in his apartment, slow dancing to his humming. “Yeah, well, it’s a good book,” she mumbles.

“That it is. I think we’ve all a bit of lost boy in our souls. Some more than others.” He says the last sentence while holding her gaze and she knows what he means. They’ve been through similar things in their lives, even if they don’t know all of each other's’ stories. A lost soul always recognizes another.

“I liked _Snow White_ while growing up, too,” she says in attempt to stray farther away from thoughts that aren’t meant for this time of day. “I didn’t have a lot to read, but that was one of the good ones I found.” It’s something else, having the freedom of admission, knowing she can hand him parts of herself without the need of preservation.

“Aye,” he nods. “We weren’t very wealthy growing up, but Liam liked to read, and he’d bring home all sorts of things he could find. I suppose I got it from him.”

She wonders if he got his way with kids from him, too. Or if it was from his mother. She likes that they’ve been doing this, getting to know each other in brief stories or small moments; it’s like looking through a scrapbook, never extremely detailed but enough to create a whole picture.

She finds that she might just like his story better than any others she’s ever read.

Emma turns to the window, eyes tracing over the frosted glass. Guitar riffs from the classic rock radio station fill the comfortable silence that stretches between them. Strangely enough, Emma feels like she’s on a first date. Which is ridiculous. They’re way past that stage, aren’t they?

“She’s a sweet lass,” Killian says abruptly, and she turns back to see his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Grace,” he adds by way of explanation.

Emma nods. She hasn’t told him about her little scavenger hunt yet, she’s still waiting for a few more pieces to fit together before she can let him in on her discoveries, no matter how eager she finds herself to share. “She didn't take to me as easily as she took to you, but, yeah,” she huffs out a laugh.

“Is that true?”

She nods. She doesn’t exactly possess maternal instincts or anything.

His hand leaves the wheel to reach out of hers, hesitantly at first, but gaining confidence the longer she doesn’t move hers away from the edge of her seat. It’s such a simple gesture, his hand on top of hers, and yet it warms her from the inside out, the cold outside doing little to pierce the bubble they’re in. “If it’s any consolation,” he says softly, “I took to you most immediately.”

Emma scoffs in disbelief, but turns her hand to lace their fingers together. The smile stays on her face until Killian pulls into the parking of the bar, kissing the back of her hand before dropping it.

“Shall we?” he asks.

She finds herself increasingly surprised by how agreeable he is to the fact that she wants to keep this, what’s between them, theirs for a while longer. It’s part selfishness, and part not wanting to fall under the pressure of her friends’ questions and expectations. Emma knows they aren’t like that, not really, but she’s wary as always.

“Yeah,” she says, letting herself linger on embracing the idea of _we_.

-/-

Despite the occasional despondent glance she casts at her phone in wait for August’s text, she finds herself enjoying the ease of company and the taste of rum on her tongue.

David and Mary Margaret had apparently insisted that Robin and Regina join them, too. So the six of them it is, under the dim lights and with the voices around them getting louder as the crowd grows.

(When she’d gone up to the bar to order drinks with Robin, Emma had asked him why he didn’t come along with Killian considering they work together, and all. He’d given her a sidelong glance and a secretive smile, and asked her about her volunteer work, instead.)

(Maybe there’s more than just Mary Margaret behind this.)

“Do you remember the time you looked like Jesus?” Mary Margaret teases David over the noise.

“Don't remind me,” he grumbles.

“Oh, I've got to see this,” Killian grins and pleads Mary Margaret for a photo until she's scrolling through her phone for an old one of the three of them in college. David’s long hair phase didn't last more than a few months but they all love reminding him of it as much as he wishes he could erase it from existence. Killian laughs loudly before passing the phone to Robin.

“Is the long hair a thing every guy goes through?” Emma asks.

“I never had it,” Robin shrugs.

Emma looks at Killian with a smirk teasing her lips. Sitting across from her, he avoids her eyes as best he can, but David catches her raised eyebrows and pointed glance.

“Wait,” her brother says, smile growing wider, “Killian?” It only takes a few moments of all of them goading him for him to sigh and take his phone out, sliding it across the table for them all to see the lock screen wallpaper he still has on.

Killian looks at her and scowls, mouths _Just you wait, Swan_ , but it quickly turns into a smile he tries really hard to hide when she taps the side of his shoe with her boot a few times.

Regina mentions a time a few years ago when she wore her hair in nothing but an extremely high ponytail like she was out of an 80’s aerobics video, and then Killian’s laughing, scrolling down her Facebook timeline as fast as he can to see if he can unearth the photos.

It’s strange to think that this is her life now. It’s like she blinked and the world started righting itself from where it had tipped over. Emma feels the shake of the earth under her arm, but she quickly realises that it’s just her phone vibrating, clearly trying very hard to aid in being an extended metaphor.

_Maine_ , August’s text says _. More details in 20._

Emma smiles at her screen. There was no return address, but there was a postage stamp, as faded and indiscernible as the ink was. She’d sent August a picture right away, days ago now, hoping he could make it out and come back to her with a general area, at best. Emma had no doubts he’d get into the USPS database if he had to.

If Emma was right about the closeness of Grace and her father, then it wouldn’t hurt to consider that he’d send money to make sure she was taken care of properly. She doesn’t agree with it, if that’s what he’s doing, but it makes her work a little bit easier.

She waits a whole fifteen minutes before she excuses herself and slips out from her seat at the end of the booth and walks over to the nook that leads to the bathrooms. She calls August.

_“Emma?”_ says August, his familiar voice hitting her with a wave of nostalgia.

“Hey, August,” she says with a smile, “I got your message. Any more details on it?”

He chuckles. _“Did I not say I’d get back to you in twenty minutes with more?”_

“Well, I needed to be sure. You can be pretty cryptic.”

_“Should have taken your impatience into account,”_ he says, and she can imagine the smug grin on his face. _“Plus, how else would a mystery be a good one without a little bit of ambiguity?”_

“Seriously? Not everything in life is straight out of a film noir,” she reminds him.

_“So you’ve told me,”_ he hums. She hasn’t heard his voice in a very long time, but it’s like she never spent all those years jumping cities after she met him; like she’s still sitting across from him in that run down little room he called an office and swapping cases over fried shrimp. _“Anyway, this is as fast as the software can work, which is why I gave you a time frame. Hold on.”_ There’s a few beeps on the other end and then silence.

Emma sighs, stares at the faux wooden paneling of the walls and wonders about the logical reasons someone would leave their kid only to want to support them from afar. She comes up with nothing.

_“Still there?”_ August asks, and she hums. _“You’re going to love me. This was issued from a post office located a few miles south of Portland. You up for a drive to the scenic coastal town of Storybrooke, Maine?”_

Emma pauses, blinking in disbelief. “Storybrooke? Seriously?”

_“Google says it’s real,”_ he confirms. Then, a small warning in his tone, _“Look, this thing is months old, there’s a chance it might be nothing.”_ He doesn’t want her to get her hopes up, but Emma knows how this works, she’s done it a hundred times.

“Yeah, but it’s _something_ ,” she replies. “Send me all the info and I’ll check it out.”

_“Already texted you.”_ Her phone buzzes under her hand right on cue.

“Great,” she takes in a deep breath. “And August? Thank you.”

_“That’s what friends are for, right? Just be careful, Emma.”_

“I always am,” she says, a small smile quirking at her lips. She hangs up after a quick goodbye and stares at the text message until the lines all blur together. There’s a new sense of anticipation building up, making her chest feel lighter and her limbs jittery. It feels good, exhilarating.

She wants to get on this as soon as humanly possible before it slips out of her hands.

She’s finally, _finally_ , catching a break.

For a brief second, she feels bitter about not fighting harder to keep this part of herself. But it falls away quickly, especially when she steps back into the noise and sees Killian leaned heavily against the bar, talking to the bartender. Her bad moments led her here, she reminds herself.

She sidles up next to him just as he’s done ordering. When he notices her, a grin blooms on his face, starting at one side of his mouth and pulling up until it’s practically taken over his whole face. Emma doesn’t know if he’s always worn this smile when he’s seen her, and she just hasn’t noticed before, or if it’s something new. Either way, she likes it. Her earlier feeling of anticipation seems so small compared to the one that overcomes her now. She wants to kiss him, here, in this very loud bar, with far too many people around them. But instead, she smiles.

“Alright?” he asks, nodding at the phone she’s twirling around and around in her hands.

“Yeah. I think,” she exhales, “I think we might have him.”

“Pardon?”

“Jefferson. We found him. Well, maybe, I don’t know yet. But we found a lead anyway, and I need to check it for it to get anywhere but-” she cuts off her useless rambling and looks up to see him beaming. “But it’s something.”

“It is something, indeed.” He stands there, pride in his eyes, and even though she’d rather do much more, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him in a hug. Because no matter how she looks at it, the first thing she wanted to do once she got off the phone with August, was tell Killian. He pulls her in closer with his arms around her waist. “I knew you could do it,” he says softly into her hair.

She pulls back but keeps her hands on his shoulders. She shakes her head. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Aye, but you will. I have no doubt about it. And you will find him, Swan, I believe that.”

“Really?”

“Bet my life on it, love.” And he smiles so hard that the corners of his eyes crinkle, and then his fingers squeeze her waist. If her world tipped over right now, his grip would stop it.

If it was possible to stop the world altogether, she’d choose that. Only for a moment, so she could keep reliving Killian’s faith in her, and the way he almost encourages it when she sways into him by tilting his head closer.

But, she’d also choose that, because then she wouldn’t hear David clearing his throat very loudly and pointedly beside them, and making Killian jump back and nearly out of his skin.

“What exactly is going on here?” David says, near demanding, using what Emma is sure is his Cop Voice. His arms are crossed and his glare is fixed on Killian, and Emma almost groans in frustration because honestly, is one fucking break that hard to ask for?


End file.
